The Cases We Solve
by EuphoriaLily
Summary: Sherlock's feelings for Watson become increasingly difficult to deduce. He doesn't even know what he's feeling. Will he be able to deduce it all? Sorry in advance for any typo's. When this story is done, I will reread everything and change it.
1. A Lesson and Two Sisters

**Okay, this is my first Elementary FanFic. I can't get this Ship out of my mind, it is infuriating, I love them so much. I'm okay with friendship and romance either way on the show, but I love reading about a romance between the two.**

**Alright, enjoy!**

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Sherlock Holmes was utterly confused.

Standing there in the living room of the brownstone, waiting for Watson to come down for her lesson, he felt lost. She was a woman who had baffled him at every turn. She had stayed where so many, including his own father, had run for the hills. She had admirable detective-skills, especially when it came to marks on dead bodies. She made him a better person. And for the first time since his childhood, he liked who he was.

He sprayed a little perfume on the floor, knowing full well that he would regret that until next Tuesday.

He sat on the couch and stared ahead of himself. He registered everything around him, storing every scent, sound and object neatly in his memory. But he wasn't aware of it. The main part of his brain was trying to deduce the mystery that was Joan Watson. Which was near impossible. She was the only one who managed to surprise him. Going left when he thought she would go right. Staying as his apprentice when he thought she'd move on.

He had quite enjoyed their time together, teaching another mind about his ways, not being alone all the time. Somebody, besides Gregson, who believed he could be better. It felt surprisingly good. It made him forget about London.

She'd forced him to move on. Forced his mind to focus on something other than his misery.

His hand suddenly surged forward, his long fingers closing around Clyde's shield. The little animal had quickly crawled up to Sherlock's crime scene, but had not gotten the chance to defile it. He put the turtle on his lap and stared at it for a very long time.

Watson was taking her time.

The animal moved his legs, and Sherlock laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it all. Clyde looked as helpless as he felt.

"Sherlock?"

His heart was in his throat for a nanosecond. This was why he felt confused. She could sneak up on him. He rose, put Clyde down on the couch and turned to her. She was standing in the doorway, a blindfold tied around her head and a nervous look on her features. And she looked beautiful.

Sherlock was surprised to notice that that assessment wasn't coming from any sexual attraction he had towards women. Joan just...was beautiful like this. It almost felt wrong to think it, because he had seen his fair share of women in blindfolds and had worn enough to know that they were a restrictive form of sexual intercourse. Not being able to see was an inconvenience, especially during sex. Not that he'd ever had much trouble with that. His sight out of the way, that gave his other senses more room to assess, to see.

But it didn't feel like that, with her. He didn't feel like he was looking at one of his call girls. He was looking at Joan, a woman he trusted more than anyone, a woman who trusted him enough to put on a blindfold.

He had to compose himself. Not a second had passed since he'd gotten up. "Watson! Excellent!" He quickly paced over to her and took her hand in his, ignoring how his body reacted to that.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" she asked. "What's this lesson?"

Sherlock smirked as he lead her to the carpet. This was what he did best. "Smells are essential to a detective, Watson. You might remember the case with the comatose woman who wasn't comatose at all?" She nodded. "The deodorant gave her away from the beginning."

"Yes, I do remember. But why am I blindfolded?"

_Because you look beautiful._ "Because, my dear Watson, your senses need to be sharpened. Years of sensory attacks on your nostrils have weakened them. And a normal human being already has weakened senses." He knew she was rolling her eyes then; he felt her hand tighten around his and her stance distanced her from him. "But fret not, they can yet be saved. There is a crime scene here. I want you to identify a possible killer."

"O-okay. But...I don't know where to go."

"Just kneel. Start sniffing about a bit."

She sighed, and he knew (or guessed) what she was thinking. She all found this utterly ridiculous, but Sherlock didn't agree with that. It was very important. For goodness sake, he'd solved multiple cases because of his sense of smell! To his surprise, however, she sank to her knees without complaint, her cheeks a lovely pink.

_Oh, Joan Watson, are you ever not going to surprise me?_ Sherlock looked at her, sitting on the floor, her hands splayed at her sides as she did as he instructed her. After a few seconds, she wrinkled her nose and coughed. Ah.

"What the hell is that?"

Sherlock smirked. "You tell me."

She inhaled deeply and coughed again. "Smells like...sandalwood and musk. What is..." She sniffed again, and Sherlock felt amazingly pleased with himself and her. She was doing this willingly and she was doing it well. "Is that jasmine?" Her voice now held contained excitement. She sniffed again. "No way...orange blossom? Sherlock?" Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from smiling like an idiot. She had guessed the top note. "Is that Chanel No. 5?"

"Excellent detective work, Watson! You can get up now." She rose fairly quickly and Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. "Now what does that tell you?"

"That either the victim or the culprit is extremely lucky."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that she was indeed a woman. "Focus, Watson."

She smiled. "Sorry. Okay, like I said, either the culprit or the victim is very lucky and extremely rich. A bottle can cost up to $2100."

"It's not the victim, Watson. The victim was a very poor, young student, with no distinguishable fragrance on her body upon discovery."

She nodded and bit her lip. Sherlock caught himself staring at her for a minute too long. Confusion washed over his brain. Normally, his body responded to women, and never had it to Joan, but now his brain was responding. It never had before. Not even with...

He shook his head fiercely. He would not allow his body nor his brain to think like that.

"Okay, so the culprit was rich. And a woman." She shook him out of his thoughts.

"Why a woman?"

She snorted. "Please, Chanel No. 5 is a women's perfume. Everybody knows that."

Sherlock grinned, utterly pleased. "Take the blindfold off, Watson." She yanked it off before his words had fully left his mouth, blushing heavily. "A well-done job. I'm proud." _Why do you look so overwhelmingly beautiful, Joan Watson, when you blush?_

"So, how do I figure the culprit from that?" Her eyes were shining with excitement, and Sherlock knew this was what she loved above everything. Even being a surgeon. He couldn't help but feel a little bit complacent about that. He had introduced her to his way of life. He loved being able to teach her, to watch her grow into a wonderful detective and watch how she loved it.

"Well, after this, you start digging into the victim's background. Figure out if she's got friends or family that are this rich and have a motive. But that is for another time. You've done exceptionally well, Watson."

Joan smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock took the ridiculously expensive perfume from his pocket and handed it to her. She'd more than deserved it. She stared at him for a good long while, her fingers closed around the bottle. "Are you serious?"

Sherlock swung his arms out and to his side stiffly and shrugged. "Like you so accurately pointed out, this is a woman's fragrance. I don't know what I would do with that perfume." He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, his mind wandering to his bed. His body needed rest. "It's yours, Watson!" With that, he took the stairs three steps at a time, leaving her baffled and surprised.

He knew it was overly expensive and not like Joan at all to own it. But he'd figured it might make a good starting point in this exercise. It's not like he didn't have the money. He slammed the door behind him and got himself ready for rest.

But when he lay in his bed, he couldn't find his sleep. His body was restless, and his mind kept wandering to the woman downstairs. He couldn't fathom why she was affecting him so. He stared at the ceiling as time progressed without his knowledge. At some point, he heard her soft footsteps on the stairs and turning to his door instead of her own. He turned his back to the door and pretended to be asleep. He didn't want to face her. His door opened, and then he only heard her soft breathing and her eyes on his back. She stood in the doorway for a long time, just looking at him. He stayed still the entire time, even though his mind ached to turn and let her know he knew she was there. You can't sneak up on Sherlock Holmes. Except that she could. After maybe ten minutes, she moved again, but not away, but towards him. His heart started pounding, and he frowned slightly at that fact.

His bed dipped as she sat down, leaned over and suddenly he felt her lips on his temple, causing him to shiver. "Thank you, Sherlock." she whispered, and then left.

Sherlock let out a breath and flipped on his back. There were a couple of things wrong with him. First, why hadn't he realised he had been holding his breath? That never happened, he always was aware of things like that. Second, why didn't his mind and body listen to him? It was like he was losing his self-control. Sherlock Holmes didn't do losing his self-control. Third and final, why did she have this effect on him? It was beginning to become a bit annoying. Every time he heard her, or saw her, his body responded in some fashion. It was a bit distracting, honestly. This wasn't something he was familiar with.

_Fuck!_ Sherlock rarely swore, but this was a dire situation. He felt like he was losing his mind. He had to do something. Anything. Ignoring his body's plea for rest, he jumped up and went downstairs. Solving a case, that would probably work best.

He conjured up a box of cold cases, and started shifting through the information, soaking up in it. Three years ago, two girls, sisters with the age of 6 and 3, disappeared without a trace or ransom demand. The only suspects were their childless aunt and estranged father. Both had a solid alibi. Splendid. This was a good case to solve in the dead of night.

At the end of the night, however, he wasn't even close to solving it. His mind kept wandering off to a certain dark haired woman. It was infuriating. He huffed angrily, rose and took out his basketball. He needed something, anything to get his mind off places he didn't want it to go. He began bouncing it, and throwing it and hitting every wall he could without breaking something, while he ran the case through his mind. Every piece of evidence led straight to the father, but he was in Casablanca at that time. How was this even possible?

He finally lost himself in the case, and it was a relief. His heart rate slowed to a calm and steady pace, just as he liked it. He threw the ball again and again, while his mind cracked the case slowly but surely. It was a relief.

"Sherlock!" Watson came storming down the stairs, her face red with anger. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Sherlock let the ball bounce through the room and smirked triumphantly. "I just solved another one of Gregson's cold cases!"

"Why were you bouncing that ball at six in the morning?! Some people actually sleep in on a Sunday!" She grabbed the ball and threw it at him in anger. He dodged quickly.

"Feel better?" he asked calmly, ignoring any and all signals his mind and body were giving to him.

She raked her hand through her hair and sighed. "No. What cold case did you solve?"

Sherlock took the file and gave it to her. "Recognise this?"

"Oh yeah, the two missing girls. How did you solve that?"

He was most excited that she asked him this. Not that he wouldn't have told her anyway. "Well, you might want to know that the estranged father is a very wealthy man, he owns an art gallery. His net income is over 2 million dollars per year. Now, I've called in a couple of favours at the airports and it appears that he owns a private jet. He can go anywhere, at anytime." He pointed to a world map, and he saw that he had Joan's full attention. It pleased him. "Now, a trip from Casablanca to New York, isn't long at all. Nine hours tops. It's easy enough, especially with a private jet. Fly to JFK, take his two daughters, fly back and it's done, before they're even reported missing."

Joan watched him with intrigue. "Aren't you going to call Gregson?"

"I will tell him when I see him." He sighed deeply, his high spirit leaving him. "This is the bad news. The US has no extradition contract with Morocco. Time isn't of the essence, because we simply cannot get the man over here. One has to admit, it was perfectly planned. I plan to reach out to a contact of mine in Casablanca, see if he can snoop around."

"But what of those poor girls? Who knows what shape they're in."

"There's really nothing we can do now. But my bet is that he took them away from their mother because she filed a lawsuit against him when they divorced. He lost custody to his girls. She said he was highly abusive." Sherlock looked at the picture of the mother with her two girls. "I think it was the other way around."

"She was abusing them?" Joan bit her lip and Sherlock had to turn his eyes away from her. This was honestly maddening. "How can you tell?"

Sherlock tore the picture from the wall and handed it to her. "This was taken four days before they were taken, one year after their father left. Notice how the oldest, Lizzy, has a bruise on her neck. And the youngest, Alice, is waving and her sleeve is rolled up a bit? She has a bruise on her wrist. If their father was indeed abusive, any traces of bruising should be gone after a year."

"These look barely two days old."

Another good job. Sherlock felt pride swelling in his chest. "Exactly. Add the fact that both girls don't look genuine in their smiles...well, I think it wasn't their father who abused them." He despised the idea that a mother could do that to her children, and anger boiled inside of him at the thought of what those girls must have been through.

Watson looked up at him, surprise and wonder in her eyes. "You're not planning on reporting this at all, are you?"

Sherlock smiled at her perception, she was really quite a detective. "Not yet. I want confirmation first. If they're happy and safe in Casablanca..."

She suddenly stepped forward and hugged him, taking him by surprise, cutting off his sentence. "I knew you had a good, gentle heart." He sniffed her lovely scented hair and that sent his stomach swirling. This was not a good idea.

"I have a particular disdain for abusive parents. Even more so than for blackmailers. If those children are safe and happy, I have, indeed, no intentions of reporting this breakthrough." He heard the venom in his own voice. She stepped back, smiling broadly. "Which is, as you might imagine, rather difficult for me." She rolled her eyes at that, but it could not deter him from the fact that she was beautiful.

And there his mind went again, off to places it didn't belong. He almost groaned aloud. He had to deduce what was happening to him. He used to be better, sharper, with her, but that was quickly fading into a fatal distraction. Something he had to solve on his own. As hard as it was to admit, this was his own fault. Not hers.

"Thank you, Sherlock." she said, tapped his chest with her hand and turned back to the stairs. "While I'm awake, I'm going to jog. Care to join me?"

Sherlock considered it briefly, but didn't think it would be a very good idea. He needed some time away from Watson to figure it out. "No, I need to run some errands!" he said as she walked up the stairs. He shrugged on his coat and put on his shawl. "Won't be gone long. If anything happens, call me!"

He closed the door behind him, and stood on the porch for a minute. He had never before offered that she call him if something happened.

He had to do something. To talk to someone, or his head would explode.

Alfredo. He would know what to do.

So Sherlock hailed a cab and got in, giving the driver Alfredo's address. Alfredo was his last hope. If he couldn't help him...

No one could.


	2. A John Doe and a Kidnap

**I never thought this chapter would come up so soon, but I have a holiday on my hands, and loads of free time, so I just started typing and here it is! It's a bit shorter than last chapter, but that's because for me it suddenly ended. I had a feeling that I shouldn't continue in this chapter.**

**Enjoy yourselves!**

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**Chapter 2**

Now what did detective Bell want? Sherlock answered with utter calm. Today he heard that the two sisters were happy and well in Casablanca. He had been able to talk to the girls, now 9 and 6, and they told him everything that had happened. The only thing that would be reported in this case, was the abusive mother. He would see to it that she would face justice.

"Detective Bell, how may I be of service?"

_"Holmes, we've got a John Doe washed up on the shore of the Hudson. We thought it would be a good case for your apprentice."_

"Very well, we're on our way." Sherlock hung up, and stalked up the stairs to Watson's room. He entered without knocking, a thing he regretted almost immediately. She was standing in the middle of the room, back to him. And very much naked. She gasped, pulled her blanket from the bed and covered herself quickly.

"SHERLOCK!" she screeched. He fought the urge to turn around, but he would not show her that this had flustered him.

"I'm sorry, but we have a case. A body washed up on the shores of the Hudson. Wonderful opportunity for you to learn, Watson."

She threw her brush at his head and yelled, "Get out! We have talked about boundaries, Sherlock, and you're overstepping all of them!"

He rubbed the spot where the brush had hit him, an indignant expression on his face. "Was that necessary?"

"Yes! Now get out!"

Sherlock gave up. "Alright. Coffee will be waiting for you downstairs." He turned on his heel to go, but then his head throbbed again, and he turned back, startled. "What...?" Her alarm clock lay broken and useless on the floor.

Watson stood with her arms crossed over her chest. "Don't even think I will apologise, Mr. Holmes. Now get out."

He had the urge to come over there and be very childish. But she hated that even more, so he just turned around without saying anything, leaving her alone for the very first time. His head was spinning, and it wasn't because his head was hit twice. It was because he couldn't get that picture of her in the middle of that room out of his head. It swarmed there, drowning out every other thought. He rubbed his forehead, trying very hard to concentrate on making coffee. It felt so horrible, not knowing what was happening to his mind, and that he couldn't control any of it. He remembered his conversation with Alfredo the day before yesterday.

_"I can't tell you what you're feeling, Sherlock. But it's strong. It's unbelievably strong."_

_"But why can't I deduce it?" he'd asked._

_"Because it's undeducible - if that's even a word - , feelings and women. They're not meant to be deduced." Alfredo had smiled. "This isn't about understanding the pure science of it all. This is about understanding where those feelings are coming from and then following your heart."_

_"But my head is dominant." He had been frustrated again. He couldn't follow his heart, his head overruled everything._

_Alfredo had smiled yet again. "Then it is obvious what you should do." Sherlock had shaken his head, not understanding. "Dominate the dominant."_

Dominate the dominant. Alfredo obviously knew nothing of dominance. A dominant is very hard, if not impossible to dominate. Sherlock shook his head and poured himself a cup of coffee. Absentmindedly, he took a sip and then spit it out as fast as he could at the despicable taste. What was that? He looked down and cursed loudly. He had forgotten to put coffee in the filter! This was just boiled water, with the taste of filter! Silently cursing himself, he began to make another pot as quickly as he could, seeing as Joan would be coming down any second. Speaking of which, what was taking her so long? Was this punishment for walking in on her earlier?

"Watson! Any time you want to come down?!"

No answer. Sherlock frowned and shouted her name again. Pure silence. This was very unlike Joan. He took a few stairs. "Watson, if you're trying to punish me for walking in on you, I should tell you, you are not succeeding!" There wasn't even a movement upstairs. His entire being was forcefully denying what his head already knew. Something was very wrong. He took the stairs two at a time, calling her name again, genuinely worried now. He threw her door open. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. His head started spinning again. Oh God, Joan. Every other room was checked and empty, and his last resort was his room. He threw the door open, and looked around frantically.

"Joan!" It, too, was empty and he stood there indecisively for a long, agonizing second, and then went back to her room. He had no idea what had happened, but there had to be a clue. He walked into her room and scanned it, taking everything in. The sheets were tousled on he ground (he tried not to think of when he'd last seen those), a single heeled boot lay abandoned next to the bed. He sniffed the air and found a faint salty scent, just barely recognisable over - Sherlock had to chuckle a little despite himself - the Chanel No. 5 perfume.

His mind worked hard and fast, as it took in everything. The scent, the barely recognisable footprints that were definitely not hers, the open window...the open window! Sherlock was fairly certain that the window hadn't been open before, when he was here. He ran to it and stuck his head out, the cool morning air meeting him, along with the city's smells and noises. Down there, he saw something glimmer. He had to contain himself, or he would've jumped out of that window right then. Instead he flew down the stairs, left the house and was beneath her window in less than ten seconds. A single hairpin lay there. He smirked. Clever, wonderful, amazing Watson, she'd left a trail! He ran back into the house, took his coat and scarf and left, intending not to return until he had her back, safe and sound. While he began searching for another pin, he dialled Gregson.

_"Holmes, what is taking you so long?"_

Sherlock picked up another pin, and smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry, Captain, I'm afraid I'll have to pass. Someone took Watson."

_"What?! Come to the station, immediately!"_

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Captain. By taking Watson, whoever did this made this very personal. There is no force on this earth that can stop me from finding her and the man responsible."

_"Holmes, you're angry, I get it. But don't repeat yourself by going after this guy alone!"_

"Oh, I am most certainly not angry. I am seething."

_"Holmes, I'm telling you to come to the station, we will figure - "_ Sherlock hung up and followed the trail, leading away from the brownstone, to the heart of the city. All the while, his mind figure out where this could lead, but there were endless possibilities. There was so much in the centre, Joan could be anywhere. He passed through a park and suddenly, he found two pins. She'd been here longer. Maybe they had stopped here. On the grass next to the path, he saw a patch of grass crushed and uprooted. He crouched down and sniffed at it. Chanel No. 5. She'd sat here. By the uprooted part, there lay another pin, covered in dirt. He sprang to his feet and looked down at it, confirming his suspicions. She'd written something. So she wasn't bound or gagged. Of course not, or he wouldn't have taken the park, or gone by foot for that matter. The man probably held a gun at her or something.

_'Mori'_. The i was sloppily done, as if in a hurry, but it was enough. He repeated it in his head and almost felt steam coming from his ears. Moriarty, the ruthless mastermind! Doubtful he did this himself, but Joan had figured out he was behind it all. Wonderful woman. So Moriarty thought he could take yet another thing from Sherlock that he cared about. Sherlock doubled his pace and followed the hairpins, furious and concerned. Moriarty thought wrong. Sherlock would find him.

And then he would kill him.

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**And a special shout-out to: marshmallowdeviant, andreasmandrea, Jane Q. Doe, farmgirl1964, Mochi-girl, Guest and CharmingNotDarling for reviewing!**


	3. A Conversation and a Phone Call

**Yes, and another chapter! There is a Scottish man in here, but I have no idea how to write that particular language, so if anyone wants to help out with that, please!**

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**Chapter 3**

Joan sat on the chair, her wrists bound to the legs, her head still a little fuzzy from the barrel of the gun she'd received to the temple. She wasn't afraid or anything. She knew it was a matter of time before Sherlock found her trail of hairpins and all hell would break loose. Too bad it didn't lead him all the way here, but he had a good head start. She regretted not being able to finish her message to him, but the guy holding all the good cards right now would've noticed.

Speaking of, her kidnapper sat across from her by the window, gazing through a tiny crack in the curtains. He was blinking quickly, and she saw his eyes moving rapidly from one point to the next, and his shoulders moving up and down with fast breaths. She smiled. He was experiencing withdrawal symptoms. "Haven't had your fill in a few hours?" she asked. He looked at her, frowning. "You're blinking rapidly. You can't focus on one thing longer than a few seconds."

"Shut up!" he growled, his heavy Scottish accent making it hard for her to understand him.

"What are you supposed to do with me? Aren't you supposed to kill me?"

He rose quickly and paced towards her. "I said, shut up!"

Her stomach clenched, but she wasn't afraid. This was what she wanted. She lifted her knee and kicked him in the groin. He groaned and doubled over. She lifted her knee again and hit him square in the jaw. He fell backwards and a feeling of pride and relief washed over her. It didn't help her one bit, because she was still tied up and Sherlock hadn't shared his expertise on cutting ropes from an impossible angle. She wasn't even sure he could do it, but knowing him, he probably could. "That's what you get for kidnapping me."

"You bitch!" He sprang up and stalked back towards her, and slapped her hard across the cheek. It stung, but Watson didn't let it show. It was well worth it. "I'm assigned to keep ye here, and wait for someone to show up, so that's what I'm gonna do."

Joan clacked her tongue. "Moriarty getting soft on me? Tsk, tsk."

"I wouldn't know what yer talking abou'."

"Sure you wouldn't." she said laughing. "You know, you're going to be so sorry when Sherlock finds you."

"Mr. Holmes won't hur' a fly!"

"He tortured the murderer of his love. And it turned out not to be him. He wasn't even sorry."

The man laughed. "Sebastian Moran, heard abou' that. Got himself arrested, the stupid git. Won't let that happen to me."

Joan laughed harder. "You kidnapped his only connection he's made since London. You honestly think he's gonna let you off the hook?"

The man shrugged. "I'm just followin' orders, 's all." He rolled up his sleeves and wiped some sweat off of his forehead. Joan envied him for that, 'cause for some reason it was extremely hot in here.

"So you're army, then?" Joan spotted his tattoo on his arm, and recognized it instantly. Her father had one of those.

The man growled again, "Shut up, you li'le bitch!"

Joan sighed. "Fine." She tried to settle herself back in the chair, but it was really uncomfortable. On the outside, she was all confident and tough, but on the inside, she was scared and worried. If Moriarty wasn't planning on just killing her, than what was he up to? "Look, ehm...what's your name?"

He groaned. "You wha'?"

"A name? I presume you have one?"

He rolled his eyes and growled, "Call me Wes."

Sherlock had taught her well. He was lying straight to her face. But she couldn't do much with that information at the moment, so she stored it and got back to business. God, Sherlock, get a move on. "Well, Wes...wanna unfasten these ropes?" She pulled her best pouty face. "They're hurting my wrists."

Wes laughed, a thundering, cold laugh. "And have you escape on me? No, don't think so!"

"Escape how? You've got the gun, big boy." She saw him doubting for a moment. It was true, she really wasn't planning to escape. She wanted to be free, but she didn't want it with a bullet in her back.

Wes groaned again, and Joan felt a tiny bit of pride. "Fine. No funny business, though, 'eh?"

She shrugged once. "Like I said, you've got the gun." Wes cut the ropes free and Joan flexed her wrists with a relieved sigh. It felt good to be free. "Thank you, Wes." she said politely, as if this was just a conversation with a friend. She walked up to the window and peeked through the crack. "So, what's the plan?" she asked him casually. He looked at her surprised. "Look, Wes, you've got me kidnapped, at gun point, and I'm not going anywhere, because I value my life. Okay? Best make it easy for the both of us."

Wes sighed. "Fine, Ms. Watson. You win. Just make yourself comfortable." He sighed again and stared out the window again.

"So, why are you doing this, Wes? What's in it for you?"

"I said you could make yourself comfortable, not that we could get friendly. Got that?"

Joan raised her hands in surrender. "Sorry. I just wanted to make it easier for us. I'll shut up." She looked out onto the streets blankly, and hoping Sherlock would show up soon. She missed him. She missed his cocky behaviour, his impatient brilliance and even his tendency to invade her personal space. She blushed when she remembered this morning. It had been so awkward, but somehow, she hadn't really minded. She really couldn't explain it, but she'd been starting to experience feelings that confused her for some time now. Every time she saw Sherlock, shirtless or worked up because of a case, her stomach would clench. She couldn't explain it, but it was confusing. And terrific.

She saw him fidget with his gun, his breath uneven. He was on the verge of breaking. Joan smiled. She needed to get inside his head, but she never imagined it would be this easy. "He's got my wife and kids." he suddenly murmured.

Joan sat up straight and looked at the Scottish in front of her. "What? Oh Jeez. Wes, I'm sorry."

"Graham. The name's Graham. Moriarty's got my wife and kids, he said he's gonna kill 'em if I didn't kidnap you. I'm sorry, Ms. Watson."

"I'm sorry, Graham." She leaned forward and grabbed his attention by taking his hand. "Listen, if you let me make a cal, Sherlock can protect you. Captain Gregson can take you into protective custody."

"I can't! He's got eyes everywhere. If you leave this place in one piece, or if I leave for that matter, he'll kill my family." Tears welled up in his eyes. "My family means everything to me. Have you ever been in love, Ms. Watson, do you have kids?"

Joan shook her head. "No, I haven't and I don't." Why did that feel partly like a lie?

"Well, a beautiful woman like you, you're bound to be some day." He sighed. Joan hid her blush expertly. "It's a beautiful thing, love. You want to spend as much time with him as you can. You'll grab and do everything that can take you closer to him. Or her, in my case." He smiled. "And every day, you'll fall deeper and deeper, and at the end, you'll say, 'I can't love anyone more than you.' But then come the kids. Those beautiful gifts from heaven. They'll look so much like your partner, and yet stand completely apart, and then you'll say that you've changed your mind and that there is, in fact, one thing that you love more than your own soul mate. Your baby."

Joan listened breathlessly as Graham spoke, and somehow her stomach clenched. And only one thing came to mind; she'd done everything to stay with Sherlock. But that was a ridiculous notion, she wasn't in love with Sherlock! "Wow, that was beautiful, Graham."

"Yeah, and it's because of that that I cannea let you go." He raised his gun at her again, and she raised her hands, her heart pounding in her chest. "I'm sorry, Joan." His voice trembled and his eyes were moist. "But my family is more important." They stared at each other for a long time, but Joan refused to be the first to cave in. She had to show him that she was not afraid.

Suddenly, her phone rang, and they both jumped. She quickly reached into her jacket pocket an looked at the caller ID. Her heart jumped. "It's Sherlock." She looked at Graham pleadingly. "Can I please answer?"

Graham rose and snatched the phone from her hand, making her heart drop. She thought she was making progress with him, but now she felt like she'd just taken a giant leap backwards. "You won't speak. You can listen, but you won't say a word." He pointed his gun at her to prove his point. "Got it?" Joan nodded, eager to just hear Sherlock's voice. Graham answered. "Mr. Holmes, I presume."

_"Where is Joan Watson?"_ Relief swarmed through her at hearing his voice. Only now she realized how much she'd actually missed him in those few hours.

"She's here with me, Mr. Holmes."

_"Let me speak to her."_ Joan heard the venom in his voice and knew he was extremely angry. She had never heard him so angry. Not even when he was planning to kill M. _"Let me speak to my companion, or I swear to God this phone call will be the last thing you will ever do."_

"I've got a gun aimed at her head right now, I don't think you can make demands."

_"Trust me, I can make the demands and I am. Or you can tell Moriarty that you just lost your only bargaining chip."_ Joan's heart clenched at his words. Was he willing to risk her life?

But Sherlock always knew what he was doing. Graham gave in. "Fine. A few minutes." He handed her the phone and she grabbed it.

_"Take me off speaker."_

Joan did what he said and put it to her ear. "Sherlock?" she murmured.

_"Are you alright, Watson?"_

She sighed, it was good to hear his voice without the venom, filled with concern. "I'm fine. Just a lightly lightheaded."

_"I promise I'll find you. I was quite impressed with your clues, Watson, well done."_ Joan blushed. _"I'm going to find you."_

She smiled. "I believe you."

_"How did you know it was Moriarty?"_

"I asked."

Sherlock suddenly laughed, and it was a wonderful sound. He rarely laughed. _"You're quite a woman, Joan. Has he hurt you?"_

"No. Well, he knocked me out, but I'm okay. You have to find us soon." She looked up at Graham, who was staring out of the window. "This guy doesn't do this willingly, Moriarty has his family."

Sherlock sighed. _"Family is a very strong persuasive method. That man can get quite dangerous."_

"I know. But I'll be fine. Just find me."

_"I am so sorry, Joan. This is all my fault, it is like Irene all over again. He goes after the people I care about most."_ Joan's heart leapt. He cared about her. He had never said that this explicitly before. He was off his game.

"It's not your fault. This is never your fault. I'll be fine. I promise."

_"I will find you. I promise."_ There was something different. He sounded furious and guilty. He sounded out of control.

"I believe you again. Sherlock, promise me you won't go after this guy as you did with Morran. Don't repeat your actions, please."

It was silent on the other side of the line for a long time, and she just listened to him breathing, which calmed her. _"That is very difficult, Joan."_ he admitted quietly. He sounded lost. Almost scared. It touched something inside her.

"I know. But please, I beg of you. For me."

He took a deep breath. _"Alright. For you."_

Graham clicked his fingers and gestured for the phone. Joan held up a finger, she needed one more minute. "Sherlock, do you remember the killer bees?"

_"Yes?"_ he said, unsure of what to expect next.

"It's just a good memory." She smiled. "Find me, Sherlock."

_"I will. Put me back on speaker." Joan did. "Listen, sir. I can protect your family."_

Graham looked up, surprised that the attention was suddenly on him. "No, you cannea. Nobody can. I have to do this. For my family."

_"Sir, I can guarantee your family's safety, just let Ms. Watson go."_ Sherlock sounded almost desperate. Wait, Watson? Joan hadn't noticed before, but now she realized that he'd been calling her Joan. Warmth filled her, for he had never done that before.

"You don't get to make the demands! I have a gun aimed at your partners head, I will pull that trigger!" Joan's heart beat hard in her chest, as she saw the barrel point at her. Graham was shaking, and so was the gun.

_"No, don't! Please!"_ Sherlock shouted.

Graham smirked shakily. "Everybody has a weak spot, Mr. Holmes. I guess I found yours." He loaded the gun and Joan gasped for breath. Had this been the plan all along? Shooting her when Sherlock was on the phone? She didn't want to die. She wanted to live. She wanted to continue her lessons with Sherlock. She doesn't want to leave Sherlock. Oh please, God!

_"No, no, no! Please, don't!"_ shouted Sherlock, panicking now. _"Please, no!"_

Joan was frozen in her seat.

Then Graham pulled the trigger.


	4. A Gunshot and a Madman

**I AM FREAKING OUT! Did you see last episode? I loved it, I really, really, really loved it. I had major JoanLock feels at the end and when she was taking out the bullet from his shoulder! So I wanted to upload this one.**

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**Chapter 4**

Sherlock Holmes stood frozen on the spot, his phone clutched to his ear as the shot still rang through his ears. His brain wasn't working properly, obviously, because he could think of nothing else but Joan and the fact that that man just shot her. He wanted to shout and curse and cry, but his body remained perfectly still. _Joan, please be alive._ Cars and birds and accidents happened all around him, but he heard nothing.

_"I'm okay!"_ She wasn't. His imagination was getting the better of him. A voice was shouting at him in the distance. _"Sherlock, are you there? I'm fine!"_

And suddenly he was wide awake, his heart pounding in his ears, his blood boiling. "You've just made a grave mistake." he said to the man in a dangerously low voice.

_"Oh relax, Holmes, she's fine! This was a warning shot. I'm not to be messed with!"_

"No matter where you are, no matter what you'll do to hide, I will find you and I will end you." he hissed, his body and mind fully functioning again. This man, this monster just threatened the life of the one person that made Sherlock a better man. Very big mistake. In the back of his mind, he remembered his promise to Joan, but that was before all of this happened. Before he'd felt the pain of losing her. "And when I do find you, Joan Watson best be alive, or I swear to God I will make your ending extremely painful. Joan?"

_"Yes, Sherlock?"_ She sounded out of breath and startled, and another spike of rage went through his body. He had never felt like this before, but it scared and fuelled him at the same time

"I'm coming to get you." And then he hung up. He looked at the screen while he paced towards the park where the killer bees had been. He had understood her clue perfectly. There was something with that park, something important to Joan. 17 missed calls Captain Gregson. Sherlock felt slightly guilty for leaving the man hanging like that, so he compiled a text message. **W KBP. CU THERE 15.**

Within the minute, he received a reply. **SPEAK ENGLISH!**

He huffed irritated. How hard was it to understand his message? **Watson Killer Bee park. Meet me there in 15.** There, that should be understandable. With the panic and the feeling of being so defenceless still coursing through his body, he raced towards that particular park, hoping that Joan would be there. Joan. Brave, courageous Joan, she was such a wonderful detective. Not only that, she was a wonderful woman. It would be a great loss to the world is she was killed.

Sherlock frowned as he realised something. He would suffer a great loss if she did die. That realisation shocked him. What was going on in his mind, why did it allow him to feel this way? He hadn't since...well, Irene.

At the thought of the name, a surge of anger went through him. Moriarty had already taken the one woman he cared about, why would he want to go after Joan? His phone rang, and he picked up without looking at the screen. "Yes?" he snapped. If this was another person trying to sell him something...

_"If I were you, Mr. Holmes, I'd be a little more friendlier, seeing as I control the gun aimed at your girlfriend's head."_

Sherlock froze yet again. This was happening way too often nowadays. "Moriarty."

_"Yes, old friend."_ The man chuckled, and Sherlock felt the urge to throw his phone into a nearby pond. _"Well, we find ourselves at a crossroads yet again, Mr. Holmes. But this time you have a choice. Your pretty, little girlfriend, or you."_

Sherlock shivered lightly, but kept his voice calm and controlled. "I do not know what you are talking about, she is most certainly not my girlfriend."

Moriarty clacked his tongue on the other end. _"Now, now, Sherlock, you should not lie to me."_

Sherlock frowned. Why was this monster under the impression that he and Joan were a couple? That was utterly ridiculous! But worse, why was this monster presuming that Sherlock was lying? "I am not lying. I do not lie. I bend the truth, withhold things, but I do not lie." he said calmly. He barely recognised his own voice. Inside he was seething, screaming and cursing. "Joan Watson is not my girlfriend, we are not an 'item'."

Moriarty was silent for a long time. _"Well, Mr. Holmes, congratulations, you have managed to surprise me. The way you looked at each other...ah well, no matter. You still care enough to hunt her down and safe her."_

"You took one person I cared about from me. You will not take another." He stopped on the hillside where the killer bees were once, where Captain Gregson and Bell were already waiting. Sherlock shushed them with a finger and they understood. "I will find Watson. I will find you. And I will end your existence once and for all." His mind was racing with possibilities and different outcomes. A lot of them involved death, and only a few of them resulted in Moriarty's death.

Moriarty chuckled darkly, slowly driving Sherlock insane. _"Manners, Mr Holmes. Your companion's life may depend on it. Now, if you'd be so kind to inform Captain Gregson that he should not meddle with this. This is between you and me. I can still shoot Ms Watson."_

"He is currently working on a case, I cannot reach him." Sherlock said. His mind told him that it was not a lie, just bending the truth.

_"I find that very hard to believe, Mr Holmes."_

"Why?"

_"Because he is standing right next to you."_

Sherlock's insides froze, and his blood turned to ice. He whirled around his axis and scanned his surroundings. He could see them. The son of a bitch was watching them. "Where are you?"

_"That's not part of the game, Mr Holmes."_ Before Sherlock could answer, the other side went dead.

Goddamnit! Sherlock nearly screamed in frustration. He threw his phone at a nearby tree, and it shattered into a million pieces. But he didn't care. How in the world was he going to find Joan Watson? He yanked his coat off and threw it to the ground. It was too hot, he couldn't think. His head was about to burst... "Hey! Holmes, what is wrong with you?!" shouted Gregson. Sherlock whipped his head towards him, intending to take all of his anger out on him and the detective.

But his mind stopped him. This wasn't their fault. It was his, and his alone. Like Irene, he had pulled Joan into his life. He had done this to her. And this would never stop. Until Moriarty was dead. Well then. That was decided. "My apologies, Captain." He pressed his fingers to his mouth to calm himself, and felt the stubble. He had forgotten to shave this morning. "A momentary lapse of good judgement. This man, he...he puts me on edge. What with my past..." He flailed his hand at his head to indicate exactly what he meant.

"What happened to you with this guy, Holmes? Why is he after you?" rumbled Gregson.

"I wish I knew." Sherlock took a deep breath and decided that it was finally time to reveal to Gregson what he had experienced in London. "Moriarty killed Irene Adler in London. She was someone I deeply cared about. It was what triggered my drug use ." His head pounded as it screamed at him. There wasn't time, he had to find Joan. He couldn't let any harm befall on her. "We haven't the time, we must find Joan before he kills her!" Sherlock turned away and started for the hilltop.

Gregson pulled him back, and he whipped around, anger boiling at the surface. "You have just shattered your phone into a gazillion pieces! You were about to take something out on me! What is wrong with you?!"

Sherlock took a step closer. Everything in his life was suddenly chaos. How was it possible that his head hurt more every second while he stood there and did nothing, while a maniac was threatening Joan's life? "What's wrong with me, Captain Gregson, is that somewhere in the most populous city of the country, my partner is being held hostage by some maniac!"

"Sherlock, just take it easy..." Detective Bell took his arm, but with that, he crossed a line. Sherlock felt himself balling his fist, turn around and punch Bell square in the jaw. It felt extremely good. At least he was doing something. The moment he did it, Gregson had his arms restrained behind him. The pain that went through his shoulder blades was excruciating, but he ignored it as he struggled to get free.

"Let me go, I need to find my partner!" He felt desperate, he couldn't focus, he couldn't...he couldn't think. Joan, dear, brave Joan, he had to safe her, he had to! He couldn't let her die, he couldn't. His mind was on overload and he just couldn't...!

"Holmes, you need to calm down RIGHT NOW, or I'm gonna have to throw you in a cell!" roared Gregson, as his arms were still locked tightly around Sherlock's as the latter attempted to escape.

Sherlock's mind recognised that he wouldn't be going anywhere if he didn't stop acting like an uncontrolled maniac, let alone would he be able to find Joan. Bell, in the mean time, had gotten back on his feet. "It's okay, Captain. Let him go."

Sherlock felt Gregson frown, more than he saw it, but his arms were released in the next moment. His anger was still solely pointed at Bell, for no apparent reason. Bell, who was now standing in front of Sherlock, arms spread. "You're angry. I get it. But the punch made you feel better, didn' it?" Sherlock nodded curtly. "Okay, so hit me again."

That stopped both Sherlock and Gregson. "What?"

"Hit me again, hard as you can. Come on, I can take it."

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to hit Bell again. The first time was a slip of good judgement, he will not do that again. "I will not hit you."

"Good, then you're back." Bell said relieved and Sherlock looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

"It was a test."

Bell nodded. "Whether or not to take you in protective custody. We won't."

Sherlock huffed. If they would have tried to lock him up, he would have taken them both down, and he wouldn't want to do that. He wanted the best Captain and the best detective of the NYPD on this case to find Watson. Not that he would ever in is entire life admit to having thought that. "I don't have time for this. I made a promise to Joan and I do not intend on breaking that promise!" He started making for the hilltop, and succeeded this time. His heart was beating a mile a minute. "CAPTAIN!" he suddenly shouted, and Gregson came running.

"Holmes, you're not acting like you." he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, now that we have a firm grasp of the obvious..." He saw the Captain frown. "Sorry. I don't understand..."

Sherlock felt Gregson's hand on his shoulder, but it didn't make him feel better. His head was imploding. He was barely able to deduce anything. He...he'd lost hold of himself. That brought a shock with it. He'd lost hold of himself, just like with Irene, just like all those months ago. How was that even possible? "What don't you understand, Holmes? Talk to me."

"I don't understand why my head feels like it's about to explode. I don't understand why I cannot handle this stress. And what I, above all, do not understand is why, in this time of trouble, all I can think about is Joan and whether or not she is still alive." Sherlock grabbed his head and felt like tearing himself in two.

Gregson looked at his friend warily. "I have honestly never seen you like this, Holmes."

"And I have honestly never felt like his before, Captain." Sherlock said, gritting his teeth. "If you have an explanation, don't hesitate to share it with me."

"I think I do." Sherlock heard the hesitation in the Captain's voice. "Sherlock, what do you think of Miss Watson?"

"What do I - ?" Sherlock sighed. What the hell. He could just tell the man. "Joan is a very bright, skilful, kind woman. The likes of which I have never met before. She has great deductive abilities."

It was Gregson's turn to sigh. "That's your professional opinion. Now look into your heart. What do you think of your partner?"

Sherlock groaned and turned away from the Captain violently. That was the second time someone said to him to use his heart and the fact that he had a hard time dealing with that, frustrated him to no end. "I can't! My head deduces everything, my heart has absolutely no say in it. My head won't let my heart rule. Did that once, and I ended up in a rehabilitation centre." He started pacing in frustration.

"Holmes, you can't work like this. You have absolutely no focus. Just...alright, try this. Tell me what you're thinking when you're around her. When you spot her from the corner of your eyes. When you see her work. What does your mind tell you then?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared out over the park, forcing his mind to focus briefly. "When I'm around Joan, my body starts doing strange things. Make motions I don't want to make. I notice how beautiful she looks with her hair down, something I would never notice. How professional she is, no matter which job she performs. When I see her from the corner of my eyes, my heart pounds too hard to be healthy, my hands start shaking, my head starts buzzing. I don't control it, Gregson, and neither my body nor my mind understands what's going on. What you just heard was my deductive mind trying to make sense of it all, that wasn't my heart."

Gregson smiled and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "No, but it told you exactly what the heart is trying to tell you. It just can't make sense of it, because all those reactions cannot be chemically or scientifically engineered or explained." He laughed a little. "What you've got, my friend, is a very bad case of something wonderful called love."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and frowned. Love? No, he'd promised himself he would never do that again. "It can't be."

"And yet it can. You, Sherlock Holmes, are falling or have already fallen for your partner, Joan Watson."

Sherlock was frozen on the spot. It was impossible. He couldn't have fallen for Watson, he simply couldn't. He didn't work that way. Irene was the only one for him, how could he move on from her? But how else to explain what was happening to him? He couldn't. The reactions of his body were quite similar to the ones he experienced when he'd first met Irene. "It's not possible." He'd promised himself, never again. He wouldn't feel so hurt and lonely and vulnerable ever again. He waved off an annoying fly buzzing around his head and buried his hand in his pocket again. But if it was possible, and that was a big if, how could it be that he'd never noticed? How could his brain not have deduced that? "It's impossible!"

"I know you think that, but it isn't." Gregson laughed. He was laughing, and Sherlock felt a little pang of anger. This wasn't a time to laugh. He'd lost control of himself, his actions and his words. How was that possible? He waved at the fly again, which wisely decided to leave then. Gregson scratched his head, a little blush on his cheeks. He was going to tell something he wasn't really comfortable with. "Love, real love, it sneaks up on you. I should know, I've been married long enough. You can't fight it. You don't notice it. And when you do, it's too late. You're in too deep. That's what's happening to you now. You lose hold of yourself. When she's in danger, you lose yourself. You go crazy. When a madman threatened my family once, I went mad with rage. Nearly snapped the man's neck."

Neck snapping. Another way to kill Moriarty, or the kidnapper. "What are you saying, Gregson?"

Gregson huffed out a laugh in disbelieve. "For the brightest man alive, you're pretty stupid." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, loudly, but Gregson continued, "I'm saying that you are past that point of no return. You are in love, whether you're going to admit it, or not."

Well, he wasn't going to, because he was not in love. He'd decided to shield his heart. Nobody was able to enter. Not without his consent. Period. "I need you to leave, Gregson. And I need your phone."

"Holmes..."

"I'm quite serious, Captain. He doesn't want you here."

"Well, he can forget it."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. He really didn't have time for this. "Captain, he said he would kill Joan if you remained on this case." His voice was almost a shout. He extended his hand to the Captain and awaited the mobile phone. When Gregson didn't respond, he lowered his hand, irritated. "Captain, I am not about to risk Joan's life just for the sake of letting you join the investigation. And I need a phone, I need to be available. Now, quick as you can, please."

Gregson sighed, resigning and handing over his phone. "Holmes, before I go..." Sherlock looked at him, and saw something of amusement in his eyes. "You've said her first name 5 times in the past conversation. Never Watson. And God knows how often you've thought it. Just something to think about." Then Gregson turned and rejoined Bell, who had been waiting at the foot of the hill. Sherlock stared after him, his face blank, but his mind racing.

_...We must find Joan before he kills her!..._

_...All I can think about is Joan and whether or not she is still alive..._

_...Joan is a very bright, skilful, kind woman..._

_...When I'm around Joan, my body starts doing strange things..._

_...He said he would kill Joan if you remained on this case..._

_...Captain, I am not about to risk Joan's life just for the sake of letting you join the investigation..._

Six times. Not five, but six times had he said her name in the past conversation. He huffed, a cynical complacency coming over him. Gregson had counted wrong. But that did not lessen the magnitude of the fact that he indeed had said it, without even noticing it. There was something very disturbing going on with his mind. He needed to have it looked at, but not now. Now he needed to find Joan. He called her again, and was not surprised to hear her kidnapper's voice. "Is she okay?" he cut to the chase.

_"Calm down, she is perfectly fine. For now. Why can't we reach you, Mr Holmes?"_

Sherlock snorted. "Please, he'd know exactly how. I shattered it. Reach me on this phone number. Can I hear her for a second?"

The man laughed. Any other man would have thought it was a cruel laugh, but Sherlock heard what it really was. Nervousness. _"Of course."_

Sherlock gasped as he heard her yell out in pain. "No! Don't hurt her, I swear to God...!" His heart was beating like crazy, and his insides hurt at her pain. This wasn't right. This wasn't the way it should be, he was supposed to be the one to get hurt in this scenario. Not his Joan. Nobody was supposed to touch her.

_"A warning from Moriarty, Holmes. Stay available."_

Sherlock was panicking. "I will! I will, just don't...!" He quickly gathered himself, he needed to be in control. "Don't hurt her." he said as calmly as he possibly could.

_"Stay available."_ Then he hung up and Sherlock had to contain himself to prevent himself from shattering yet another phone. He didn't even know what to do. What did Moriarty want from him?

But his phone rang, and without looking at the number, he knew it was him. He picked up with a sharp, "Yes," and heard him chuckle on the other side.

_"Come, come, Sherlock, a little bit more chipper, please."_

Sherlock couldn't believe his ears. Was this man actually suggesting that Sherlock had to be _happy_ right now? He obviously had a lot to learn. _"_Just get on with whatever you plan on doing."

_"You want to get to the main game?"_

Sherlock was quickly losing his patience. "Sure, just say what you have to say."

Moriarty took a long inhale of breath. _"Well, Mr Holmes, you are an enigma, you really do surprise me."_ Sherlock had to bite his tongue in order to not prolong this any longer. _"Well, then let's get this show on the road."_ Sherlock stored in his brain that this madman liked to play games and stretch things out. Might come in handy one day. _"Your pretty little girlfriend is in New York, but in three hours, she won't be. If you do not want her to be dead by the time you see her again. You will do exactly as I say."_ He inhaled deeply again, and chuckled. _"You have three hours to find a white house, with a white door. In that house and behind that door, I will be waiting for you. Fail to report to me there at 11 am sharp, and Joan Watson is dead. Call the good-old Captain, or that annoying detective, and Joan Watson is dead. Am I understood?"_

"Yes, yes! Jesus."

Moriarty chuckled. _"Alright, Mr Holmes. Tick tock."_ The line went dead and Sherlock immediately ran. He knew Joan was here, he'd always known. But he simply could not risk her life. Her life was more important above all. He thought about Gregson's words, but shook it off.

It just wasn't possible.

He had to find her, he had to safe her.

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**Huge thanks to: Animegal809, Orison, Jane Q. Doe, CAMMIE, Lady Imara, River, , Guest, Mochi-girl, marshmallowdeviant, Angelical love, Dustyfog416 and James Birdsong for reviewing on last chapter! You guys are the best!**


	5. A Search and a Revelation

**Hi there! This is chapter 5, not very long, but I hope it's good. Have fun! Follow me on Tumblr; matt-in-neverland!**

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**Chapter 5**

White house with a white door. What kind of a clue is that? There were hundreds of white houses, it would take hours to go through all of them at public records. For God's sake, he'd been here for two hours and hadn't found anything. Sherlock glanced at his watch and let out a sigh of frustration. One hour left and still no closer to finding an answer. It frustrated him. He had to find the answer, for Joan.

His phone buzzed. **00.59.30. Tick tock.** He clenched his fists and stepped away from the phone, in case he would feel the need to throw something again. He didn't know where that white house was, but somehow he knew exactly what it looked like. It was like he knew that house, like he'd seen it before. But where? Where was that bloody house? Think, damnit! He was becoming more and more angry with himself every passing second. He sat down and shoved himself over the floor until he was seated underneath the table. Too many distractions, he didn't need to be distracted right now. He closed his eyes and started digging through his memories. Where the bloody hell had he seen it before? Come on, come on, come on, come ON! Sherlock kicked a chair in frustration and opened his eyes at the loud bang it gave. He checked his phone again. 00.29.12. Still not seeing you. He growled at he screen. That man loved to antagonize him.

He threw the table aside, files and pictures soaring through the air and landing all around him. One photo landed right in front of him, and it was like it triggered a memory. A conversation long lost in his memories, buried deep under walls and layers of protection; a memory of his time with Irene.

_She was standing in front of a painting, her beautiful blonde hair and her perfect backside distracting him from everything else around him as he entered her loft. It was light and airy in the room, and a sudden tranquillity came over him as he entered. The case he was working on was killing him, and the presence of Irene, the wondrous paintings and some clean, fresh air did wonders._

_"Hello, Sherlock." Her soft voice brought shivers with it and he moved his shoulders slightly to shake it off. She was a marvel, and did things to his body and mind that nobody else ever did. She was still with her back to him, completely disappeared into her painting. Yet she had noticed him. She was very good._

_"Should I come back later?" he asked, hoping she'd say no. But he also didn't want to disturb her while paining. She was incredibly talented._

_Now she turned, her hair whipping around her shoulders and a mischievous smile on her lips. "No, please, stay. You're an inspiration to me." She turned her whole body towards him and frowned when she saw him. "Are you okay? You look...exhausted."_

_Sherlock sighed and let his shoulders hang a little. "This case...it's extremely difficult. Taking a great toll on my mental and physical state."_

_Irene smiled and walked over to him, her hips swaying sensually, making his mind fog over a bit. "Come here." she said, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him into a intimate hug. "You want some distraction?"_

_Sherlock held her tight and put his chin on her shoulder, sighing heavily. "Please," Before he could so much as utter another word, she crashed her lips on his, making his body stand at full attention, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her sharply closer to his body. Their lips moved in perfect synchronisation, moulded by the practice they'd had over the weeks. He let his hands roam her body, exploring every curve, every line, every speck of fresh paint on her clothing. His body literally collecting data for his brain to process. Memorizing her._

_They were interrupted by her phone ringing, and they both knew she had to pick up. She always did. She broke away from him, panting. "Sorry. I'll just be a sec." She grabbed her phone and disappeared into the other room, leaving Sherlock behind with a hot feeling burning in the pit of his stomach and his heart beating wildly against his chest. Evil woman, he thought. Never before had anyone make him feel like this. He entwined his fingers behind his back and started looking around, admiring her work. The work she'd been working on was the first thing that caught his attention. He walked over to it as he admired it. It was an idyllic-looking house. It was big and airy and white. He chuckled. It's what Irene would like to own. He studied it closely, admiring the detail in it. The sunshine, the water in the fountain. It all looked very real. Next to the easel lay the example, and he held it next to the canvas. It was an exact copy. Beautiful. Marvelous. He turned the photograph in his hands, hoping for an address. Maybe he could buy the estate for her one day. And indeed, there it was written. Mmm...New York. She clearly missed America. The address was scribbled down in her neat handwriting._

"Dear God!" Sherlock gasped as he remembered it, ever so clearly. The address written down on the photograph, the house; with the white door. How was this possible, how could Moriarty know? By the time he came into their lives, Irene had sold the painting anonymously to a private collector. How in the world...?

No matter, no matter. He had the address now. He crawled from under the table and almost fled the public records. "Sir! You have to clean up...!" an attendant shouted after him.

"Send me the bloody bill!" he yelled back, hailing a cab, giving the driver the address and telling him to step on it. When he protested, Sherlock threatened to go to the police and his personal friend Captain Gregson with the information that the cabbie was trafficking drugs every once in a while. The cabbie nodded and indeed floored it. Sherlock looked at his phone and felt nauseous when he saw yet another text. **00.09.15, dear Mr Holmes. Miss Watson's time is quickly running out.** As if he wasn't aware of that little fact. He accessed internet and quickly typed in his destination. Oh dear God. Still 8 minutes out. Why did he have to cut this so immensely short?

Meanwhile, he tried to figure out how Moriarty could have known of that painting? Of course, it could be coincidence, but Sherlock didn't believe in that, especially not concerning Moriarty. How could he have figured out that his Irene had painted this very house months before her premature demise? He could have forced her to tell him. No, even a man like Moriarty couldn't have known this would happen. Deductive skills did not give one the sight of Foretelling. He reached several conclusions at once, before rejecting them in an instant. Neither of them seemed plausible. Yet he ran through all of them. Friends? No, Irene didn't have friends that knew about her original works. Family? None. Her parents were dead, her brother long gone by the time she grew into painting. Not plausible either. Maybe Irene wasn't...

His heart stopped. How could he even go there? He knew she was gone, why would he even consider something like that? He'd seen the blood himself, for God's sake.

But his mind was reeling with possibilities. If she never died...she could be a hostage, too. Kidnapped and held captive for years. Or maybe he forced her to leave, and then staged her murder. But why? Why, why, why? Sherlock knew there was another explanation, but he ignored it, because it couldn't be, it wasn't possible, it simply wasn't possible. His phone rang again. **00.02.00, Mr Holmes. I don't like what the future holds for Ms. Watson.** His heart was racing, his blood rushing through his ears. "Faster, man!" he yelled at the cabbie. He was slammed back into his seat he next moment.

"Sorry, man, but is it a matter of life and death?" the man asked as he maneuvered through the traffic at high speed.

"As a matter of fact, yes!" Sherlock shouted. "Yes, it is!"

"No prob, man. We're nearly there." And indeed, ahead of them appeared the white house, just like on Irene's paining. The fountain, the door. It all fitted. Just like the remaining puzzle pieces in his head.

"Send the bill to the New York Police Department." Sherlock said as he hastily jumped out and ran towards the house. He had to be on time, he had to save Joan, even if it would be the last thing he did. His mind was running wild, because he had come to a conclusion in the cab, just seconds before they arrived. A mad, idiotic, improbable conclusion. But if you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. In the back of his mind, he hoped he was wrong. But he never was. He knew he was right, he knew what would be waiting for him on the other side of that door. And he was scared out of his mind. He approached the door with thirty seconds to spare, and reached out for it. He noticed that his hands were trembling and he swallowed. Come on, Sherlock, get a hold of yourself. The door creaked at his touch and he knew Moriarty had heard him. He quickly walked on, hoping that Joan was here. "Joan?" His ears picked up soft classical music playing and he followed it. An eerie feeling crept up on him. This was not going to end well. For someone. Another white door. Here was Moriarty waiting for him. Oh, this was going to hurt. But he'd do it. For Joan. He pushed the door open and was blinded by bright light. Well, Moriarty did have a flair for dramatics. He stepped inside and closed the door. A figure was sitting in the center of the light, but it was hard to make out. "Cut the dramatics. Where's Joan?" The figure rose and turned to him. He'd expected this, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself, and looked his arch enemy straight in the eye, before speaking.

"Hello, Irene."


	6. A Threat and a Fall

**Well, then! Here is the next chapter! It took a while, but I had test week, so I'm allowed(not really allowed, but okay). I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

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**A Threat and a Fall**

Chapter 6

"Hello, Irene."

Irene Adler aka Moriarty. He should have known. He should have known that there was no perfect woman, not like Irene was.

Irene laughed. "You figured it out, then? Good for you. I knew you would, though I thought you'd do it a lot earlier than you actually did." Her blonde hair was tied up in a tight knot on the back of her head, and she wore a brown leather bomber jacket. This wasn't Irene. This was Moriarty. And her accent. It was British. Not American. She'd even fooled him with that.

"The man I talked to on the phone, saying he was Moriarty. Who was he?" Sherlock wound his hands behind his back and kept an eerie calm over him. Inside, he was reeling. He had been fooled beyond believe, and he had fallen for it. He had been so desperate to believe that there was someone out there for him, so glad that there was someone who could relate.

"That was one of my lieutenants. He's taken the role quite often to protect my identity. Or when I thought a potential client would have some difficulties with my gender." She snorted, turning her back on him, he hands behind her back and her back straight. "As if men had a monopoly on murder." Sherlock followed her movements closely, seemingly calm, but very much freaking out inside - for lack of a better expression.

"Where is Joan Watson?"

Irene - Moriarty - smiled, but her eyes didn't. It was hard to see her like this. This woman was clever, cunning and heartless. She wouldn't hesitate to kill if it served her purpose. This really wasn't Irene. She was obviously never real. "She's somewhere safe."

"Release her this instant!"

"No." Moriarty said, smiling deviously. "Well, I will, but first something else. You're quite a game, Sherlock." She now smiled as if it was a big compliment.

He just raised his brows. "Excuse me?"

"You're a game. Every time I expect you to jump left, you jump right. Your mind is a mystery, one that I'm very interested in."

Sherlock began to suspect that this woman wasn't just a murderer, but insane as well. "All very nice and good, but I didn't come here to play games."

Moriarty chuckled, and Sherlock had to fight his physical attraction to her. No matter how cruel she was, she was still the love of his life and the physical was very much still there. Still tugging at him. "Of course you didn't. You don't play games. You solve puzzles." She sat down and looked at him. "That's why I let you live back in London. You're an interesting man, and I didn't lie when I said you were a piece of art. I love art." She chuckled. "You kept up with my own mind. But after a while I realized you would never be as clever or as sharp as I am. So I left."

"And you sent me down a spiral of drugs in the progress."

She frowned and sat up straight. "Oh. Another thing I did not expect, Sherlock. That was never my intention."

"You're a serial killer. You're saying you didn't have a plan for me?"

"Oh, I did, don't get me wrong. But you amazed me. It would be a shame if the world lost you."

"What did I ever do to you?"

"Well, what do you think?" Moriarty said, her face filled with something of contempt, and she was obviously looking down on him. It hurt his pride and he immediately straightened his back. He would not stand there and be sneered at by the woman who nearly ruined his life.

"I foiled one of your plans."

Her mouth smiled. "Good. Multiple, meticulously planned ones for that matter." She rose and neared him, as if to threaten him. He didn't feel anything at this point, except maybe for worry for Joan. But he had to play this right, if he wanted to ever see her again. "I came into your life to kill you, Sherlock. That was the plan, lead you to my little shop, offer you something to drink and slip something in it. Make it look like heart failure." She stood right in front of him now, and he was towering over her. It gave him little breathing room, but also a safe feeling. Even though she was more dangerous than he was. "But you proved to be something of a game. My mind is like yours, Sherlock. Only you see puzzles, I see games. Let me let you in on a little secret." She leaned in towards his ear and Sherlock stiffened. He had to fight with everything he had not to touch her. If he wanted to touch her to kiss her or to kill her, he did not know. He had never felt more conflicted in his life. "I don't like losing." she whispered.

Sherlock laughed coldly. "I bet you don't." Typical.

She ignored him. "So I began the game. See what you'd do if I played it out. And the most curious thing happened." She turned away and went back to her chair. "You kept defying me, every move I made, you countered. That had never happened before." She licked her lips. "You were a good game, Sherlock." she said, her voice clear and definitive. "But I've won." Moriarty turned back to him. "You have to leave New York."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said, surprise hitting him like a bus. This wasn't what he had expected.

"Leave New York, and I'll release your girlfriend. You're a little bit of an inconvenience, but I don't want to kill you. Leave New York, go back to London, and I promise Miss Watson won't be harmed."

"Why should I trust you?" To be honest, his decision was already made. If she was serious, he'd go. Anything to keep Joan safe. Of course, the motives were shadowy and Sherlock had his doubts about her reliability. She hadn't exactly proven to be an honest person.

"Because no matter how much you hate me, I am a woman of my word. It's something of a code I have. I never break my promises. I promise you that Miss Joan will not be harmed if you leave New York tonight."

Sherlock took his time in considering it, playing on her weakness of impatience. "I want to see her first. I want to talk to her, I want to be physically able to check if she's alright. Then I'll leave."

Moriarty blinked, as if she'd not been expecting this. "You'd leave your whole life her for a girl?"

No. He wouldn't leave his life for a girl. "I'd leave everything for her." It surprised him, really. The fact that he would give up everything for Joan Watson was something new entirely. And it surprised Moriarty, too.

"Here I thought you weren't a couple." she said, adjusting quickly, but not quickly enough to hide her surprise from him. He saw it in her eyes, she hadn't been expecting that he'd agree to it. He hid a smirk. He had her right where he wanted her. "Alright, Sherlock. I'll take you to her." She quickly gathered some things and she put her gun in her holster. Sherlock's mind quickly devised a plan. How could he save Joan? He took out his phone to check the time, and suddenly realized... Of course! He was in possession of a police phone. All he'd have to do is press the GPS tracking button and the NYPD would know where he was. Where Joan was. But he had to do it after he was reunited with Joan. He didn't know when or where they were going now, and if Gregson intercepted them before they got to Joan, they would probably find her in a body bag somewhere. So he put his phone back in his pocket and followed Moriarty out.

Her pace was confident and stern. She knew exactly what she had to do, what she planned to do and how to easiest get rid of him and Joan altogether, Sherlock knew that. But he wasn't scared. His heart was aching, his blood boiling and his head pounding, but he was not scared. He would see Joan again soon and then he would make sure Moriarty and her accomplice were arrested.

The prospect of seeing Joan again, brought a calm over him that he had not felt in a very long time. Soon he'd see her black hair again, her beautiful smile and her endless dark eyes. Oh, how he had missed that. He was almost excited, if this wasn't such a delicate situation. A limousine appeared in front of the gate, and the door swung open.

"After you." Sherlock said, never losing his British politeness.

Moriarty chuckled and shook her head. "And have you take off on me? I do not think so. After you."

Sherlock immediately took a step closer, his eyes dark and threatening, using his height to his advantage. "If you believe that I would risk Joan's life so that I can make my leave, then you're not half as clever as you would like to believe. After. You." He had never heard his own voice sound so dangerous, but he was at boiling point.

Moriarty bit her lip as she studied his face. He would never turn his back to this woman. She was far too dangerous for that. And she saw that. That, and the truth of his words. She nodded and slid inside the limousine, followed by Sherlock who was deeply dreading this car drive already. He settled into the soft leather seat, and buckled himself up. Suddenly, his entire body felt spent. His heart was slowing to a below average rate, his eyes began to droop...he felt horrid, but he couldn't sleep. He needed to stay awake for this, because she wasn't to be trusted.

"Stay with me , Sherlock. It's so much more fun when you're awake." she said and reared her hand back to slap him across the face. It never landed. Sherlock was awake instantly, his hand grabbing her wrist in mid-swing, his grip like iron. Her eyes grew wide when she found that she couldn't wrestle free from his hold. He leaned in, his eyes boring into hers intensively. She held her breath.

"Don't ever try and touch me again. I will break that wrist next time." he hissed, his voice like poison, trembling on the edge of rage. He threw her back in her seat and saw her chest heaving. He startled her. Good.

"What's wrong with you?" She did not even recognize him. She was not the only one, he didn't recognize himself either as he listened to himself.

"Take away a person's friend and they'll get angry - God knows what it'll do to me." He smirked a little. "That woman helped me get over my drug addiction, an addiction which is your fault." Her eyes grew wider again, and he knew he'd hit her where it hurt.

"That was not my intention, Sherlock." she said, turning her head away from him.

"Perhaps not. But it happened. And you know what, I never blamed you. And at the same time, I did blame you. That's what you get when you play a double role. But I forgive you, Moriarty. So you can go to hell with one less burden to carry." said Sherlock, and to his own surprise, he meant it. He put the past behind him six months ago. And she was going to hell no matter what.

"Jamie." she whispered suddenly.

"Pardon?" he said. She was staring out the window with an Irene-like look on her face.

"That's my name. Jamie Moriarty. Thought you had a right to know."

She looked like Irene suddenly. Maybe she wasn't all that bad after all. Maybe there was still good...

No. Sherlock stopped himself from turning it all into a puzzle. This wasn't a puzzle. There was nothing to figure out, nothing to solve. She was Moriarty. She killed without blinking. She was ruthless. And she had Joan. "Are we there yet?"

The fact that he ignored her statement made her change again. Her ruthlessness in her eyes returned, as did her confidence. "You are harder to predict than I thought, Sherlock. I'm impressed." Sherlock just shrugged. He kept his mind occupied with Joan, to prevent himself from falling for Moriarty's schemes. Joan was the one - no, is the one who had saved him. Nobody else. "Alright, we are here." said Moriarty, her voice hard and icy. The door opened and Sherlock stepped out calmly. What he really wanted to do was to rush out there and jump up and down until he saw Joan, but he wouldn't. He needed to stay calm and focused, keep the game at his hand, keep her from finding a weakness she could play with. Moriarty followed his movements closely, no doubt looking for such a weakness. She would be disappointed.

"Lead the way." he said politely, his face stone hard and unreadable. She searched his face for a second, but it mattered not. He was cold as ice, his eyes set on hers, staring her down. She narrowed her eyes once and then started walking. Sherlock laced his fingers together behind his back, and followed her, keeping a close eye on her and his surroundings. It was the bee park again, which meant that Joan hadn't been moved. This surprised him a bit, because he'd been here before and Moriarty had known. Moriarty always knows. "Mind if I ask how long this is going to take? I have dinner plans."

Moriarty chuckled darkly, and Sherlock's eyes flew to her. Her posture had changed tremendously since they got out of the cab. Her back was straight again, her chin had lifted and her entire body screamed arrogance and self-confidence. She was entirely sure of herself. That fact unsettled him a bit, because he, too, was entirely sure of himself, but his shoulders were sagged and his chin was pointing to the ground. The posture of a man unsure of himself. But wad he unsure about the events to come? Or another matter, which Gregson had pointed so subtle out a few hours ago? He shook any and all thoughts of that off him quickly and corrected his posture. He needed to be focused. "If all goes well, you will be well on your way to England at dinnertime. This way."

Sherlock suppressed the urge to jump her and snap her neck, but no, he couldn't do that, could he? One, he needed her to get him to Joan, and two, he did not want to end up in jail, unable to protect Joan and anyone else he cared about. He watched closely as they walked, and had quickly deduced where they were headed. Of course, the only high building with a perfect view of the park. That's how Joan had known, and that's how Moriarty could see him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He could have saved everyone a shipload of trouble. And he called himself the best detective in the world? It was laughable.

The building was completely deserted when they entered, and it was exceptionally cold inside. Nobody had been here for ages, except for a pair of footprints and a trail that looked like someone had been dragged. He clenched his teeth. Joan. Everyone was going to pay for this, he swore to God. Moriarty led him up to the sixth floor, where he heard two separate sets of breathing, one of which he recognized as Joan. He fought the urge to break into a run, instead stayed behind Moriarty, while slipping his hand in his pocket. One press of the volume button and the tracker was activated. He would press it the moment he saw Joan.

A man approached him, a probe in his hand. Of course. Good thing he hadn't pressed that button yet. The man scanned him. "Just a phone, ma'am, nothing harmful on 'im."

"Thank you." she said without emotion. The man disappeared again, and they pressed on, Sherlock memorizing every room, every corner, every detail. He needed a quick escape route, if needed. There were many windows, but that would be a little too painful. There was a fire escape at the end of the hall, the staircase which they used to get here and a lift that was out of order. Not a great deal of choices. Moriarty stopped at the second to last room and pointed in. He grabbed he phone tighter and went in, his stomach twirling. And there she was, tied to a chair and her head hanging with her back to him.

He walked over to her slowly, not showing any of his haste to get to her. "Watson..." he murmured, and kneeled in front of her. She was sleeping. "Watson, wake up." She groaned and one eye opened and then closed again , like always when she would wake up. "Hello." he said, when she finally opened her eyes.

Her eyes widened. "Sherlock!"

"You're going to be just fine, Watson, I promise." He put his hand on her shoulder and she winced. He frowned when he felt something warm and slick under his fingers, and he pulled his hand back. His fingers were covered in blood. The bastard had shot her. "He shot her?" he asked in his quiet, controlled voice. Someone was going to really regret this. Nobody shoots Joan, not after he promised her that he would not let any harm come to her concerning Moriarty.

"Excuse me?" Moriarty came closer and looked down at Joan's shoulder. Sherlock looked at how her face changed. This was obviously not part of the plan. "You absolute moron!" she yelled, and she turned to a corner, where the kidnapper stood, trembling on his feet.

"You promised nothing would happen to her if I did what you asked!" bellowed Sherlock at Moriarty, his blood boiling, his head pounding. Joan was hurt, she was bleeding, oh God...

"This was not part of the plan, I can assure you." she hissed, taking her gun out of her holster and pointing it at the man. "Why? Why did you do it? Talk fast, or it might be the last thing you say."

"It was an accident!" the man screamed, terrified. "Please, ma'am, I didn't mean to, I fired the warning shot like you said, I don't know what happened, suddenly she was bleeding! Please, please, please, you have to believe me!" He was almost crying, ducked against the glass window behind him.

"Oh, I do." Sherlock saw Moriarty smirk, and he knew the man was already dead.

"No..." moaned Joan. "Sherlock, stop her." Her voice was frail, and his heart ached for her.

Moriarty armed the gun, making the man scream out in terror. Sherlock jumped up and dived for the gun, just as she fired. The man screamed as the shot whizzed past his ear. For a brief moment, Sherlock felt relieved, but then the glass shattered and the man lost his balance, falling backwards out of the window. Joan screamed, and Sherlock dived again, to no avail. He was too late to grab the man's hand, and had to see him crash to his death. The terror was so alive on his face that Sherlock cringed, and he automatically closed his eyes when the man hit the pavement below. That poor bastard. His children would now have to grow up without a father. He shook his head and pushed himself up, turning to Moriarty. "You didn't have to do that! That man was doing as you told him, because you held his family hostage! He wasn't a trained assassin or kidnapper!"

Moriarty reholstered her gun with a shrug. "I specifically told him not to harm Miss Watson. He failed." Sherlock couldn't believe the coldness in her voice, she didn't care that she'd just half-orphaned children. He shook his head and turned back to Joan, who was sobbing softly. He knelt in front of her on the deep red carpet, lifting his hand to her cheek to cup it.

"Watson?" She looked up, her cheeks tearstained and her eyes bloodshot and teared up. "You'll be fine. I promise. I'm here now."

"Sherlock," she whispered. He smiled reassuringly, and started untying her. Moriarty didn't do anything to stop him. His mind replayed everything that just happened, and he could not shake the feeling that he was forgetting something. Something very important... "You came for me."

He smiled at her as he started with the last knot. "I promised I would, didn't I?" The last knot came free and she fell forwards in his arms. He held her close to his chest, and repositioned her so that he could carry her later. He looked up at Moriarty. "She needs a hospital."

"You need to go pack your bags."

He rose, careful not to hurt Joan even more. "Not before she is in a hospital. I promised I'd leave and I will. But first I need to know that Joan is safe and being taken care of. If you cannot give me that, than I will not leave."

Moriarty bit her lip. She looked a little distressed, this was obviously not at all going according to plan. "Alright. Take her. Bring her to a hospital. See to it that she gets medical attention." She took a step closer, threateningly. "But if you are not packing your bags and leaving in 36 hours, she is dead. Got that? A day and a half, that's what I'll give you to make sure she's going to be fine and to say your goodbyes."

Sherlock nodded. All he cared about right now was getting Joan to safety. "Sherlock? Isn't Gregson coming?" He could punch himself. That was what he'd forgotten! He should have pressed that button the moment he saw Joan, but completely forgot about it the moment he actually did. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Ah well, it didn't matter at this point. He could go and bring Joan to safety. He started walking backwards out of the room, not trusting Moriarty enough to turn his back on her. But she was already otherwise occupied. She was looking down at the body on the pavement in disgust, holding a phone to her ear. "Clean this mess up." was all she said before hanging up again. Sherlock walked down the corridor, looking at every possible point of attack. He really did not trust anything here. It was strange how all the rooms were carpeted, painted and had curtains in front of the windows, but none of them had proper doors or furniture. What was this building before it was empty? An office? A flat? He took he flight of stairs as quickly as possible without hurting Joan and breathed in heavily when fresh air hit him. Joan coughed and he looked down worried. Her eyes were wide open and alert, and he had to smile. Even when shot, she still kept her attention.

"What are we going to do? Where are we going?" she asked, as if she wasn't shot at all.

"We are going to the hospital, and then I am leaving." He hailed a cab and ordered him to bring them to the nearest hospital. He put Joan on the backseat with her head in his lap, and took out the phone. Gregson should probably know what's going on. "Captain Gregson, it's..."

_"__Yes, yes, Sherlock, I know it__'__s you, you__'__re the one who has my phone. What__'__s going on, do you have Joan?__"_

"I do. We're going to the Flower Fifth Avenue Hospital. She has been shot. Meet me there, please."

_"__Of course. Is she at least a bit alive?__"_

"She is, it's a shoulder wound."

_"__What about Moriarty?__"_

Sherlock looked at Joan, who had her eyes closed and was sleeping peacefully now. Moriarty. "She escaped."

_"__SHE?!__"_

"Yes, Gregson. I have told you about Irene Adler, haven't I?" Gregson made a confirming noise. "Moriarty _is_ Irene Adler. It was an alias. It was never real." Sherlock felt the anger inside him, and knew that one way or the other, it was going to come out. He just hoped it wasn't at his friends.

_"__Jesus. Are you okay, Holmes?__"_

"Yes, I am perfectly alright. See you at the hospital." Sherlock hung up and leaned his forehead against Joan's. "We're nearly there, Joan. Hold on. For me. Stay alive for me."

He couldn't lose her. He just couldn't.

Because...

Because...

Because he loved her.

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**Dum dum dummmmmmmmm! Okay, that was it, hope you enjoyed it. Review plzzzz, because I like them;)! And follow me on Tumblr, just search for mattsmith-the-5yearold! See you there!**


	7. A Healing and a Kiss

**Hi there! Sorry it took so long!**

**Now, without further ado, chapter 7!**

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**Chapter 7**

It took Joan less than a day to recover enough to be released from hospital. The doctors were astounded by it, and Sherlock had seen Joan smirk on several occasions as they marvelled over her recovery speed. Her secret was always and still those cursed herbal teas of hers. That entire day though, he was at her bedside, except for when they denied him access to the OR. He had to make sure she was alright, before he left. Because he should leave, and he would, for her.

Now, she was sitting next to him in the cab back home, on a quiet Thursday evening. Home. He hadn't been there for what felt like ages. It sounded so appealing. So sad he had to leave in half a day. Watson was onto him. Of course she was. She knew him better than anyone, she should notice how quiet he was, how closed off. She was eyeing him from her part of the cab, a worried look on her face.

Finally, when they were almost home, she spoke up. "What is wrong with you, Sherlock?"

He looked up, as if awakening from a deep thought. Both of them knew he had been very much awake. "I am perfectly, alright, Watson. Just a bit tired."

"Sherlock..." she said, shaking her head disapproving. "You just found out that the woman you've loved a long time, is still alive. Not only that, she is also your nemesis. Doesn't that do something to you?"

"Right now, I'm more worried about you, to be quite honest." He looked her over, and repressed all romantic thought. Ever since he'd admitted to himself that he did, in fact, love her, he kept thinking about her. It was infuriating. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. The rest helped." The cab stopped and Sherlock paid him, before proceeding towards the brownstone. He helped her up the steps to the door, trying to ignore the fact that it felt good, his arm around her and her resting heavily against his shoulder. "Thank you." she whispered. Jesus. Stairs exhausted her. Sherlock opened the door, and did something neither of them had expected. He picked her up bridal style and carried her to the living room. "Sherlock..." she said, laughing softly. Sherlock smiled, and tried very hard to not look into her eyes. He knew he'd break the moment he did.

Mmm. Mrs Hudson had been here.

"Just making it easier for you." He put her down on the couch and she closed her eyes. Sherlock shivered. She looked so exhausted. He tried to let her sleep a bit and sneak off to pack his back, but she was onto him. She grabbed his wrists without looking and then opened her eyes, her dark brown eyes staring up at him.

"Sherlock, please, stay." she begged.

"I can't." he murmured, turning his hand so he could hold hers.

She looked at him, first with a look of incomprehension and then it seemed to dawn to her. "You're leaving on a more permanent basis, aren't you?" She was quick, he had to give her that. But the look of pure shock and emotion on her face was what shocked him to his core. "You can't leave. You promised. You promised you'd protect me."

He closed his eyes. She didn't understand. She could never understand. He was leaving to protect her. "Joan, please..."

"Joan again." She sat up, and winced, making Sherlock wince, too. He crouched down next to her, pushing her back down. "What is happening to you, Sherlock? You've never called me Joan." Her hand went up to cup his cheek, but he retracted. If he let himself feel more than he already did, he would never be able to leave.

Clyde was resting comfortably on the plush chair. Sherlock briefly wondered how he got there.

Joan was pinching his hand and looking at him worriedly. "What's going on, Sherlock? Tell me."

"I'm leaving for England first thing in the morning."

The statement hung between them in an eerie silence that followed, her eyes large and shocked. "What? No. You can't. Sherlock..."

"I have to. Moriarty threatened with the worst thing imaginable. I'm leaving."

"What about me?" Her eyes were wet, and Sherlock could barely breathe. She looked really upset. "You showed me a new life. You made me better than I was. If you leave now...I'll go back to being a sober companion. I don't want that."

A single tear slipped down her cheek and Sherlock lifted his hand to wipe it away. "You can stay here. I'm giving you the Brownstone, you can continue as a consulting detective."

"Without you?" She sounded sceptical. "I wouldn't last one day. You can't leave, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock nearly broke in half. She sounded so scared and lost. He wanted nothing more than to stay with her, train her to be as good as him, without the curse he bore. But he couldn't do that. He had to protect her, she came first. She would always come first in his decisions. "I have to, Joan. I'm sorry." He rose and left for his room to start packing. He forced back unwanted tears. He couldn't cry. Sherlock Holmes does not cry. Not now, not ever.

He slowly packed his bags, every piece of clothing that he packed hurting more. He had never felt this way. He had never felt so sad to leave something behind. Leave someone behind. Joan. His Joan. If he had thought Irene was the Woman, he had been immensely wrong. She was a woman, an amazingly perfect specimen of one, but still a woman. To him, Irene wasn't the Woman anymore. No, Joan was the Woman. The only one who cared enough to stay. Who could cure him from almost anything. Who could bring his head some peace and quiet every now and then.

Joan was the Woman to him. And if he didn't want to lose her, he would have to leave her behind.

He packed for the English weather, one of the things he did not look forward to. Sweaters, scarves, jeans. He normally didn't wear anything else, but even so. The weather would make the time apart from Joan even more unbearable.

Suddenly, he heard a crash downstairs and his name being called in pain. Joan. He shouted her name and ran downstairs, his heart pounding, his breath quick and out of control. If something had happened...he couldn't even begin to imagine.

"Joan? Are you alright?!" He burst into the living room, and saw Joan lying next to the couch, tangled into the wiring of the lamp, looking as white as a ghost. He gently untangled her and checked for any injuries. Then he lifted her and put her back in the couch, cupping her face gently. "What happened?"

"I tried to go after you. But I'm weaker than I thought."

"Silly Watson. You gave me quite a fright." He couldn't help but lean in and press a kiss on her forehead. He was so relieved there was nothing wrong.

"Sorry." Then she hit his arm hard, making him yelp. "Why are you leaving like this, God damnit?!" Ah. She wanted to talk about that. Of course. Well, she actually deserved an explanation.

"Alright. Let me take you upstairs, I have to continue packing." She sighed, but nodded, and allowed him to slip his arms around her and carry her up the stairs to his room. He gently laid her on the bed and tucked her in, before pressing another kiss on top of her head.

"What's going on, Sherlock, why are you being so sweet?"

Sherlock decided to completely ignore the last question and just explain the current situation. As he talked, he packed his clothes, and it was okay. She was with him, he could vent a little and at least now she knew. Partially. "...so that's why I have to go." he concluded as he slammed his suitcase shut.

Joan had been sitting there, listening in total silence. Her eyes were wide and beautiful, and something strange happened inside Sherlock when she bit her lip. "You can't let her win, Sherlock."

"I'm afraid I have no choice. I can't allow this to continue. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you." He sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at her in utter calm. He was quite certain of his decision, and nothing would be able to change his mind. A single tear dropped from her eye and he mindlessly wiped it away with his thumb. "Please, don't cry." he whispered, a lump forming in his own throat.

"Please, don't go." she retorted, putting her hand on his. She looked so vulnerable now. He had never seen her cry before, and quite frankly, it scared him. "We can figure this out. We can beat her, but please, please, don't leave."

She looked so vulnerable and so scared, that Sherlock felt himself cringe. But he had to. He had to go. It was saver for her. She stared at him with teary eyes and a pleading look, and he almost kissed her. Almost. "I don't have choice. I'm so sorry." He stroked her cheek once, before taking his suitcase and walking out the door to the stairs.

"Sherlock!" She sounded so desperate and broken, that he dropped the suitcase and practically ran back to her. She was sitting in the middle of his bed, sheets wrapped around her. She looked like a Goddess, with her black hair framing her face and her deep brown eyes wide and open. "Please. We'll find a way. I can take care of myself. But you can't leave. I can't...I don't think I can handle being alone anymore."

He sighed and sank down on the edge of the bed, desperate for her to understand. How could she not see that the longer he stayed, the more danger she was in? "I'm doing this for you, Joan. She threatened you. And that means I have to leave to keep you safe."

"I can handle myself."

Sherlock chuckled and memories of all the times she had stood up for herself. "I know. But Moriarty is a stone hard killer. Even you won't stand a chance." He cupped her cheek and smiled sadly. "I won't take the chance that I can lose you."

"Sherlock..." she said, taking his hand. And then he could no longer contain himself. She looked too scared and too emotional and too beautiful not to finally act on his urge. He leant in and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her breath hitch in her throat, and for a moment, both their eyes were wide open with the surprise of what was happening. Then her arms wrapped around his neck and her eyes dropped closed, sighing into the kiss. His hands started exploring her body, from her hips, slowly, so slowly up to her sides and eventually her arms and shoulders. Memorizing her. Every single detail he so desperately wanted in his memory because he needed to remember her. Something to remember her by in England. He also never closed his eyes, so he was able to see all of her beautiful expressions. He slid his hands in her neck, and pulled her closer. He needed to feel her close, he didn't understand how or why, but he needed it.

And finally, for the first time in his life, he listened to his heart. It felt wonderful.

After what felt like ages, they broke apart because oxygen became a problem and they stared at each other a really long time, breathing hard.

"What...?" Joan started and then shook her head. "Now there's no way I'm letting you go."

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He snorted, because what else had he expected? "Joan, I have to."

Tears welled up in her eyes and she shook her head. "Please, don't go. What do I have to do? Tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it. Just...don't leave."

He leaned in to kiss her forehead and pressed his forehead against hers. "You can't do anything, I'm afraid. I'm leaving, Joan. No matter what. It keeps you safe. And that is the most important thing in the world at this moment."

Joan closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. "When do you leave?"

"First thing in the morning."

"Then stay tonight at least. Stay with me." She pushed back the blankets, making room for him, and he was tempted, so tempted. His head told him not to, but his heart said to take this opportunity, while he still could. He again chose his heart.

He nodded and slid under the covers, wrapping his arms around her. She felt warm and small against his body, yet she fit against him perfectly. She took his arms and pulled them tighter around her waist. "Joan..." he whispered in her hair. "There's something you should know about me. I don't...I am not fully capable of showing emotion. I tend to hurt the ones I love simply by being my ignorant self. I do no wish to hurt you."

Joan turned in his arms and looked at him, her brown eyes honest and true. "I've learned to deal with you, Sherlock Holmes. I think I can manage. Besides, you're not staying." She said the last few words with venom, she clearly resented him for leaving.

Sherlock buried his face in her neck and groaned. "Joan, you have no idea how much I'd like to stay. But I cannot, and that's because my leaving protects you." She smelled lovely, and it only took him a moment to realize what he was smelling. Chanel No. 5. "You're wearing the perfume."

Joan chuckled. "Well, yes. It's a $2100 perfume. I would never pass up an opportunity to wear some for free."

"Well, you smell lovely." He let his fingers slide over her cheek, down to her neck. He processed every line, every irregularity on her skin, every soft spot. She moaned softly when his fingers traced over the spot where her neck and shoulder connected. He'd found a sensitive spot. He leaned his head down and pressed a soft kiss there, before latching his lips onto her skin, softly sucking, making her moan. He rapidly got interested in finding all of her weak spots, and fully taking advantage of me.

"Sherlock...?" she whispered. He hummed in response as he kissed softly down her neck and to her chest. It was something new, something exciting, and he intended to indulge himself in with it completely. "Won't you ever grow tired of me? Your brain works so fast...won't you figure me out in the end?"

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled. Human beings were so tough yet fragile, so strong yet insecure. They were the best mind game out there. "Humans are terribly complex, Joan. Sure, the surface is easy to breach and culprits always have telltale signs that gave them away, but underneath...both physically as mentally, humans are the greatest mystery of all. I won't ever get tired of you, Joan, simply because you will never cease to grow and change. Every second, you change. And all those little changes are there for me to figure out, again and again. You are an endless source of pure, raw, beautiful data. And you know I love data." He stopped, rethinking his words. He wasn't sure if he just gave her a compliment or said something offensive. She was so quiet. "Am I saying this right? I do not intend to hurt you."

Joan swallowed thickly and shook her head. "You're not hurting me." Her voice was thick with emotions. "So what you're saying is basically that you cannot get enough of me."

Sherlock kissed her forehead and smiled. "Yes. That is exactly what I am saying."

Joan stared at him in awe for a while, and he tried to get inside that beautiful head of hers. He so longed to know what was happening there. Was she admiring him? Or his personality? Or simply the fact that he had just declared his undying love for her without even saying those words? Or the best herbal teas against heartbreak perhaps? Maybe he could acquire the recipe. Before he knew what was happening, she had him on his back, straddling his hips as she kissed him fiercely. Ah. So unadulterated lust was what had been going through her head. He would never have guessed. His hands slid up her legs to her hips, tightening his grip as to keep her there. The friction it was causing was so enjoyable, that he immediately wanted more. He knew that from this point on, he would never share his bed again with high class prostitutes. Joan was the only woman from now on. His heroine.

They forgot for a moment that he was leaving in the morning. They forgot for a moment how much this would hurt after. The forgot everything. Everything but each other.

"Joan?" Sherlock whispered as she broke away for a much needed gasp of air. He looked up at her. She was beautiful from this angle. Her hair was flowing down her body in beautiful, black waves, that shimmered in the moonlight. "Do you want to...? I mean, would you like to...?" He inwardly cursed himself. How was he not able to utter the words? They were so simple, so basic, so why couldn't he?

She leaned down again and smiled, before softly kissing his lips. "Make love to me, Sherlock. It's our last chance." she whispered.

He gasped as she grinded onto him, and then pulled her to him, softly pressing his lips to hers. He planned on taking all night to worship her, he was going to investigate all of her, and she would enjoy every second.

She would also do the same to him.

Because that's who they were. Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson. Consulting Detectives. Partners. Lovers.


	8. AN

Guys, guys, guys, you guys keep telling me how sad you are that it's ove, but I'm here to tell you that it is, in fact, not over! Last chapter was the ending of part 1, and next chapter will be the beginning of part 2!

I will upload as soon as I can, but I'm on holiday and don't have the means to upload a goodlooking story!


	9. A Joining and a Talk

**Oh an the rating went up;)**

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**Yeah, I know it is later than expected, I'm sorry. But I wanted to get it right. This was a really difficult chapter to write, partly because I have never experienced love like this (or any for that matter), mainly because I finally got the two of them together and I have to tear them apart again.**

**But I swear this is going somewhere!**

**Anyway, like I said, this is the beginning of Part 2, I really hope you'll enjoy it!**

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**Part 2**

**Chapter 8**

They were one.

They moved together, going through the steps of an ancient dance, in sync, as if they'd had forever to practice. She moved gracefully as a cat on top of him, her back arching as he moved slowly inside of her. He gripped her hips tightly in a desperate attempt to keep her close, as he looked at her in awe. To him, she was a Goddess, Aphrodite, his Heroine. She was embodied perfection, the way she moved, her breathy moans and throaty screams of pleasure. He wished this could go on forever. Forever together, forever one, forever never alone.

He explored her body to the best of his abilities. Seeking out her soft spots to coax moans and sighs and lovely little sounds out of her. He memorized everything. He would put it to good use. One day.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed, and she fell forward, her face burying in his neck. "I don't want you to go." she whispered again, moving her hips sharply, making him gasp. "Don't go, please, don't go, Sherlock!" His name was exclaimed, for he had thrust hard up into her. He grabbed her head and kissed her, swallowing her moans. He couldn't hear her say that now. He'd make promises he would have to break later.

"I love you, Joan, I will never hurt you, I love you, I love you." His brain registered that he was saying something, but he didn't hear. He was too distracted by all the sensations she was forcing on him.

She buried her face in his neck and moaned, the vibrations going through his body, making his hips move even more frantically. They were standing on a ledge, hand in hand. Their fingers entwined, binding them together at every point of their bodies.

Then everything exploded and they fell, tumbling down and down and further down, until the end of the universe. She was breathing heavily in his neck, her body as limp as his. "Sherlock..." she whispered, her voice hoarse from moaning.

He stroked her hair softly. Eventually, she found the strength to roll off of him, and they lay side by side for a long time, hand in hand , panting and staring at the ceiling. His mind was completely blank, and he had never felt like that before. He didn't even feel the need to solve a crime. He was blissfully empty for a change, and she caused that. He owed her.

"How are you feeling?" he managed after God knows how long. She rolled on her side and stared at him, a content smile on her face.

"Wonderful. You?"

"Like nothing I've ever felt before. My mind...it's so silent."

She lifted her head to get a better look at him. "You mean you're not deducing all the time?"

"Exactly."

She smiled, and bit her lip. "Is that good?"

"Good?" He grabbed her waist and pulled her on top of him, making her laugh. Such a wonderful, sweet laugh. "Joan, I have never been at peace. Never. You silenced my head. And even for just a second...that's the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me." He reached up to caress her cheek, and she closed her eyes. He felt such peace, even though it was slowly beginning to fade, and in that peace he saw her. All of her. Her beauty, her kindness, her heart. She was so beautiful, and he would never want or need anyone else. He didn't want to leave her. He never wanted to be without her. He could see himself grow old with her. His heart almost broke thinking about tomorrow morning, and how he would have to leave her behind.

"Take me with you." she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him softly. "Show me England. Take me with you."

It was tempting - God, he wanted to. But as long as she was with him, she was in danger. And whatever they both wanted, her safety surpassed everything. "I put you in danger. I can't allow that. Not anymore."

She rolled off him, staring at the ceiling. She was obviously offended in some way, and he had no idea what he did. "I can fend for myself perfectly fine." she murmured. "Just because I am a woman, doesn't mean I can't defend myself."

He rolled on his side and traced his finger over her side, leaving goose bumps in his wake. "It has nothing to do with your gender, Joan. It has, however, everything to do with how much you mean to me. I don't know how, but Ir - Moriarty knew that amount before I even realized. Leaving you is the safest thing for you."

She rolled on her side, and the look on her face scared him a bit. "The safest for me, perhaps. But for you?"

The realization that that was maybe the truth, shocked him. Without her, how did he know he wouldn't relapse? Without her to keep him centered and stable, how could he stay sane? "I don't know. I'm taking myself out of the equation. I've never done that before." It felt oddly satisfying. Being selfless. He knew it was only until the moment he stepped on board that boat, and then he'd curse himself. He'd tell himself that he should have been selfish. But not now and that was all that mattered.

Joan groaned, rolled on her stomach and buried her face in the pillows. "No argument is going to stop you from leaving alone, is there?"

He put his hand on her back and stroked her smooth skin. He saw goose bumps appear. "No argument at all." He leaned in and pressed his lips in between her shoulder blades. To his satisfaction, she sighed, all her muscles relaxed and she gave into his touches and advances. She rolled on her back, grabbed his neck and pulled him to her. She kissed him hard and passionately, and he knew that she was desperate and that this was one final attempt to win him over. "It's not going to work, Watson." he whispered, pushing her off gently. "And I refuse to take advantage of your desperate mood."

She looked at him, her dark eyes burning with fierce emotion, and for a moment, he thought she was going to retort in her fiery, Joan Watson way. But then she slumped and rested her head on his chest. "You chivalrous, noble asshole with your English manners." she whispered, and it sounded almost affectionate.

"I will try and take that as a compliment." he said, wrapping his arms around her. Tomorrow would be terrible, and parting from her would nearly kill him. But that was tomorrow. Today, he had a few more hours with her, and he would make those hours count. He would love her for a lifetime. "What do you want right now, apart from me staying or you coming with? Tell me what you want and I will give it to you." he whispered, kissing her hair. Her warm breath rustled over his chest, her heart beat fast against his side, and he could almost hear her answer before she said it.

"You. I want you. I want you to tell me how you feel about me, I want you to make love to me, I want you to take me in every way you know that is pleasurable."

He had to admit that he hadn't expected the precision of her demand. He had expected the 'you', but the rest...he didn't complain. He put his finger under her chin, and gently forced her to look up at him. "Joan Watson, you are the most important person in my life. You have saved me so many times by just being you, and I love you for that. I love your compassion, your fire, your wit and your intelligence. I love your smile, your dark eyes that seem to look straight through me every time, your skillful hands, your dark hair that glimmers in the light." He kissed every part he mentioned. He realized that he was leaving out so many things that he loved about her, but he had to move on. "But most of all I love you."

Joan was silent for a few minutes after his speech; judging by her face, she was completely shocked. "Are you serious?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper

"I've never been more serious." He kissed her softly, but she was still too much in shock to reciprocate.

"No one has ever said something like this before. Not to me." Her black eyes were large in wonder. "I don't know what to say."

He nodded; he'd expected as much. "Don't say anything." he said, leaning forward, his lips merely an inch from hers. He could feel her heartbeat, hear her fast breath and smell her arousal. It was the most delicious combination of senses. "Just allow me to love you."

She nodded once, and he crashed his lips on hers. He needed to be close to her, closer than he was now, closer than he could ever be. If he could, he would crawl under her skin and remain there in order to be with her all the time. He pressed her shoulders into the mattress, and straddled her naked hips. Then he moved down her body, covering her skin with kisses. He left a hickey on her neck, and he felt a strange satisfaction as he saw her marked as his. He hoped it would stay there for a very long time, to show all the men out there that she loved him, no one else.

Joan had her hands on his back, digging her nails into his skin, no doubt breaking it (not that he cared), and her moans told him that he was doing it right. "Sherlock..." she said with the voice she normally used to scold him. He knew what she was demanding. And he was planning on giving it to her in ten fold. His calloused fingers ran down her thighs, leaving goose bumps in their wake, before spreading her legs. Sherlock remembered every poet and story he had ever read about what he was seeing at this moment. And he didn't think they did justice to it. People always compared the female organ, better known as vagina or, more crudely, pussy, to a rose, a mystery wrapped in petals. But it was so much more. It held so much power. It could bring a man to his knees. Also, it was the only thing that could bring human life to this earth. He'd known it all his life, which is why he tried to treat women and men as equal as possible. In many, if not all, ways, women were stronger and more important than men. What he was looking at was, for him, the greatest mystery in the universe, the only thing more powerful than his deductive mind. And he was the one who could explore Joan's mystery. He ran his hand through her carefully trimmed, but naturally growing pubic hair; rough and soft, it seemed to tickle him. Then, slowly, so slowly, he spread her lower lips with his fingers, and he had to agree a bit with the poets. It really looked like a rose from this angle. He carefully touched and stroked, storing what sound she made with which movement in his mind. Applying pressure on her little, hard bundle of nerves, commonly known as the clitoris or clit, elicited the most delicious response from her. When he pressed it, she let out a long, hard moan, accompanied by a wave of wetness from her core. He smiled, and continued his little scavenger hunt by inserting a single finger into the tight wetness of her vagina. Her back arched at that, and because he had been touching and stroking for quite some time, she climaxed quite loudly. Wetness came from her core and he took an experimental lick. If he wasn't Sherlock, he would've moaned at the taste, but he was, so he didn't. But it did taste wonderful. "Sherlock..." she whispered, threading her hands through his short hair. Her fingers were soft and her nails scratched his skin softly.

"Yes, Joan?"

"You touch like you've never touched a woman before. I mean, it doesn't feel inexperienced, but you take your time, as if exploring everything for the first time."

"I want you to experience every bit of pleasure possible. My vast experience enables that." He licks one more time, teasing her closer to her next orgasm, and then climbs up to her to kiss her.

"How long have you loved me, Sherlock? And don't lie, because you've already said that you did."

Had he? He can't remember. But he knew he loved her. No doubt in his mind about that. "I don't really know. I've known only since a day or two, because losing you was something I know I wouldn't survive. Gregson mentioned it, and it took me a couple of hours to figure it out myself." He kissed her damaged shoulder. "But when I took you to the hospital, and you were bleeding so severely, I realized. You are too important to me. You mean too much to me. And that's a good thing. But Moriarty realized it, too." And that was his downfall. She would always be his downfall. "I guess I've loved you since day one. Just never realized."

"Remember that day?" she said chuckling. "You gave me quite a scare."

"Maybe it was more accurate than we both thought." he said, remembering the lines he said to her back then. Her expression was quite priceless.

Joan rolled them over , so she was sitting on top. "Now. Let me take the reins." Her voice was teasing, but laced with dark desire and he shivered.

"You can take them whenever you want." he whispered. She grinned mischievously, and leaned down to kiss him, while slowly rocking her hips, creating friction in a place that wasn't quite comfortable. Soon enough, he was moaning, his eyes closed while she worked his manhood like a pro. "But do so quickly. I don't know how much longer I can take this."

She chuckled, and then lifted her hips and positioned herself over him. "You ready, Mr Holmes?"

"Don't push me, Ms Watson." he growled, grabbing her hips and pulling her down on him. She gasped, her back arched and her eyes fell closed in pleasure. Her velvety heat engulfed him, and he wanted her like this forever. He wanted to stay like this, buried inside her the rest of his life. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back on the bed, taking complete control of his pleasure. Whatever he felt, was _her_ doing. Her hands roamed up to his neck and face, stroking his skin, leaving goose bumps. "Joan…!" he gasped, bucking his hips up into her as she moved up and down, left to right and rotating slightly.

"I wish we could stay just like this. Forever joined. I would like that, Joan." he whispered hoarsely, and she leaned down to kiss him. In that kiss was promise buried, and desperation.

"I would like that, too." she whispered.

"I'll come back. I promise I'll come back, Joan. As soon as we figured out this thing, this problem, I'll come back."

"I know you will." she moaned, and kissed him again. They were moving erratically now, her hands threaded through his hair. "And I will keep you to that promise, Mr Holmes." She slammed down on him once more, before coming apart on top of him, burying her face in his neck as she groaned. He thrust up into her three more times, before coming apart, too. Burying his hands in her hair, he pressed his lips against her ear, whispering sweet nothings as he released inside her. After both regaining their breath, Joan rolled off of him, burying her face in his chest.

"Go to sleep, precious Watson."

"Don't leave without waking me, alright? At least give me the chance to say goodbye."

Had she read his mind? He had just been pondering whether or not he should leave before she woke to prevent painful and tearful goodbyes, and now she told him not to. "Alright. I promise. I will wake you when it's time."

"Thank you." Her smooth hand stroked his chest, softly playing with his chest hair, tugging at it playfully. After a while, it started to tickle, and he grabbed her hand. She smiled at him and laid her head back on his chest. He felt really contend lying here like this, their hands clasped together on his stomach, his arm tightly around her shoulders. "Are you going to sleep?" she suddenly asked.

"No." he said, deciding honesty is best now. He was never planning on falling asleep. He was planning on watching her sleep all night. It was the last night that he could.

"Are you going to watch me sleep?"

"Does that frighten you? I can sleep if you want…"

"No, no, that's alright. Just don't creep me out."

He looked down at her, eyebrows raised. Was she serious? But then he saw her smiling up at him, her big brown eyes sparkling with amusement. "Of course I won't, my dear Watson. Go to sleep."

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes." she whispered, kissing his chest one more time before snuggling up to him and closing her eyes.

Sherlock looked at her, stared at her, as slowly, the sun replaced the moon in the sky, and birds announced the beginning of a new day; the end of a wonderful night. He'd stroked her hair while she slept. Held her close when she experienced a nightmare. Whispered in her ear when she cried. Watched her as she smiled. It had been the most wonderful night of his life.

And it would never happen again.

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**Ugh, sometimes I hate myself.**

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